Addictions
by MarquessaS
Summary: Sometimes it was best to lay low. But boredom is a hungry affliction, and Dean Winchester had to feed his need for distraction. He had no choice. No spoilers. Set in an earlier, simpler timeframe.
1. Chapter 1

Addictions

The job was nothing new. Reports of dead shmucks turning up in an unusually high number and concentration, and in ever more unusual circumstances. The pattern was consistent; some one would be awol for work, or not come home one night. A worried relative or friend filing a report, and days later, the bodies would show up. They knew it wasn't some sick serial killer, not with the tell-tale signs. Exsanguination. The victims sucked dry, a total depletion of blood volume, but no significant trauma. Other than those odd little punctures. And the burns.

The source was a liitle suspect, a typical grocery-store gossip rag. But they had long ago learned which ludricrous stories to discount, and which rang with a grain of truth as only they would recognize. And this one bore the hallmarks of a real problem. The article screamed vampire, which was the obvious conclusion to any one reading it. Grainy pictures of Bela Lugosi replete with black cape and wax fangs accompanied the story, enhancing the silliness of the report. But there were details buried in the nonsense that only reality could produce, and Dean caught them immediately.

He sat on the bed, plowing through a soggy corner store meatball sub and reading, while Sam did whatever he did online. Dean held the paper toward his brother and shook it to gain his attention. "Hey!" he said through a mouthful. "Poindexter; shut down the porn and read this!"

Sam shot him an acid look and sighed. "How 'bout you swallow first before you open your yap, Dean? You just sprayed lettuce all over."

Dean made a face and ignored him. "Just shut up and read it. Tell me there isn't a job in there."

Sam leaned forward with a frown and snatched the paper from Dean's hand. He made an exaggerated motion of shaking the debris from the pages before scanning them.

"So? What do you think?" Dean was antsy and eager for distraction. They had lain low for a while, after attracting some unwanted attention from local law on their last job. It was in their best interest to play normal for a while, but unfortunately, Dean didn't idle well. He required constant activity, to keep his mind from wandering old and ugly paths. His need to hunt was obsessive, practically an addiction.

Sam dropped the paper back on the bed. He wasn't all that keen on crawling back out into the glaring public eye just yet. It was safer here, in BF-nowhere, but Dean's jittery energy was driving him nuts, and it was getting to the point where it was this or fratricide.

"Yeah. I guess it sounds legit. I don't get the part about ritual marks though. I never knew vampires to be particularly ritual-oriented. They're pretty much all about immediate gratification...kind of like you, actually. I mean it's not like they're demons.."

"Tomaydo tomaddo." he shrugged. "And they might have a real story there, but the details are probably crap. I'm guessing the writer juiced it up a bit, but you've gotta admit, it makes it pretty damned interesting."

"Mmm." Sam flipped through the paper, then tossed it back. "When did you pick that up? I didn't see you go out."

"Didn't. It was at the doorstep, I saw it when I went out to get my stuff. Complimentary paper for our reading entertainment."

"Weird choice." Sam said, losing interest. "You'd think a local paper would be better."

Dean wouldn't let it go. "C'mon, Sam; how about following up on it? I'm bored out of my tree here, and I know you could use a diversion by now."

Sam snorted. He could have added any number of things to that, but he refrained. It was late afternoon, in the middle of a steaming heat wave, and too damned hot for sparring. Instead he sighed. "Fine. Whatever. At least it's not too far from here. Lucky." He shut his laptop and lay back on his own bed, sipping at his half finished coke and listening to the fat, lazy cluster flies bounce off the speckled glass of the mildew-framed window. "This place is gross." he grumbled, surveying the room with disgust.

Dean took that and ran with it. "Yeah it is! There's no reason we have to stay here; it takes five minutes to pack up our shit. Why don't we go find some motel or something out at, what was it; Lord's Mills or something? Hell, it can't be any worse than this dive."

Sam rubbed his forehead wearily and got up with a sloth's reluctance. He knew by now that he wouldn't win this one. Dean had that damned sparkle in his eyes.

* * *

"We're here." Dean shoved at Sam, who was snoozing in an uncomfortably cramped position against the passenger door.

Sam roused himself and sat up straighter, peering at the road ahead. "Jesus, finally. I thought the place was closer."

Dean looked sheepish. "Yeah, well, we might've taken the scenic route...I got a little turned around, but I figured it out."

The town revealed itself over the next hill. It was nothing special, half farming economy, half quaint tourism; apparently it was all about the maple syrup.. It had a main street that was shut down at this hour, being somewhere past six. The pavement radiated heat in distorting waves, and the brothers were sweating against the black leather of the non air-conditioned car. "Lord's Mills." Dean breathed in relief, as the sign flew past. He used his sleeve to wipe the sweat that was beading on his brow yet again, praying that their destination was air-conditioned. It was still early in the summer, but it had been uncommonly warm for weeks, and the only one pleased by that was a vindicated Al Gore. The rest of the eastern seaboard was flaked out in sticky easy chairs, fans whirring and praying for rain. At least with the tourism component, they had a few choices for the night. They settled on a plain little motel that looked bug-free and advertised a reasonable rate. Dean pulled to the gravel parking lot and shut the car down.

Both stretched wearily in the heat as they exited. Dean trudged toward the office as Sam began to collect their things from the trunk. It only took a few moments, it wasn't peak season, and Dean returned, whistling and swinging the keys. He opened the door to their unit, and Sam carried his armload in. It was better than the last place. Fresher, cleaner, and instead of the two stale singles, this one had two double beds separated by a tidy desk. Regardless of anything else, Sam was relieved to be sleeping in this new locale. Fewer flies at least.

"See? Told you it'd be better." Dean said in triumph.

Sam couldn't bitch. "So can I take stuff out for good this time? Or should I just leave it in the car in case this one isn't up to your standards either."

"Shut up, you whiner. And yeah, go ahead and settle in. And while you're at it, figure out what you want to do for dinner... I'm gonna grab a shower, and after, maybe see what there is to do around here." He threw his gear on to bed nearest the can, effectively claiming it, and headed into the bathroom. Sam repeated the routine he'd already done once that afternoon, opening his pack and taking out his immediate needs, and arranging the rest neatly beside his bed. He sprawled on his bed and closed his eyes, appreciating the bleached- clean scent of the sheets. He had to admit that it really was several steps above the last place. As he waited for his turn in the can, he turned to what he'd dumped on the desk. His wallet was there, unhappily thin. The newspaper from the previous motel. Pack of gum, which might do in a pinch...a note book, pen, and brush. Nothing filled the need, all he could think of was the rumble of hunger that plagued him. He yelled toward the closed bathroom door. "Would you hurry up?! I'm starving here!"

* * *

The shower noise stopped and Dean finally popped his head out the door. "You haven't ordered anything yet?!" He ducked back in, dressed fully, and returned. "Shit, Sam, it's already pushing eight, I can't hang around here while you make up your mind. I'll grab something wherever I end up. What about you, are you coming?"

Sam shook his head. Nothing was going to tear him away from this comfortable, clean bed after being folded up in the sweltering Impala for an eternity. "Nah. I'm beat, Dean. If you want to go out, be my guest. I'll order something in and just watch tv."

Dean shook his head. "God, you're such a wallflower. Seriously; come out with me, we'll find a couple of nice looking girls, we'll party, you'll wake up a new man."

Sam smiled indulgently and shook his head. "Go ahead, Dean. I'd only be a fifth wheel anyway. I'm not looking for what you are, so I'd only be a weight. Don't worry about me, ok? You were right, this place is way better, and I just want to relax in front of the tube after all the driving."

Dean watched him for a second, and decided it was fine. "Ok then. I get that. I think you're nuts, but whatever. I'll probably be at the closest joint around here, if it's half decent. I'll call you if there's any change. And Sam..?"

"Yeah..?"

"Take it easy on the porn channels, they're not cheap you know."

Sam expected a jibe of that nature. He flipped him the bird and grunted a goodbye as the door closed.

* * *

Sam was truly content to have begged off for the night. He was tired from the drive, hungry. His own heaven was simple, a take-out chinese dinner and a clean bed. He didn't want company or stress or thrills, all he wanted was a little peace. He was more than happy to let his brother go out and conquer the world for the night. As long as they didn't come back to the motel and demand he sleep in the damned car again...

He heard the roar of the Impala engine in the parking lot, and silently wished his brother success. But before relaxing, he counted to five and as he predicted, Dean stuck his head in the door again.

"You sure, Sam? Last chance to be wing-man.."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Go already. I'm fine. Hell, I'll be better than fine once you're out of my hair!" He knew how it sounded, but he also knew Dean understood.

Dean grinned then, a rare thing lately; carefree and weightless. "Perfect. So I won't see you tomorrow morning then, if there is a god."

Sam turned back to the book that awaited, smiling. "Knock yerself out."

When the door closed, Sam was left to himself. He sat back and looked around the plain little room. It was worn and dated, but kept well. More importantly, it was quiet. He'd endured hour upon hour in the Impala, taped classic rock blaring, Dean occasionally adding to the din with his own improvised lyrics. He was ready to poke out his eardrums with a stick long before they stopped for the night. He knew the cues, Dean was stir-crazy, and needed release. He needed something that a brother couldn't offer, and bloody soon. Sam was more than happy to send his hyper sibling out to seek what he needed. He knew from experience that the world's chakras flowed much more smoothly when Dean Winchester was sated, one way or another. If his planets lined up, he didn't expect to see him anytime before noon next day.

* * *

Dean didn't have to make a choice, there was only one watering hole in the little town. But it was busy, and loud, and he liked that. He parked himself at the bar and ordered a draught, and turned to survey the room. There were alot of women, some of them real lookers. It wasn't short of male patrons either. Most of them looked like they were just there for a good time. A few carried themselves with a certain belligerance. If he struck out, which was unlikely-he might at least expend some pent-up frustration in a decent fight. He prefered the first option, though.

As he turned to look down the row of bar stools, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. The empty stool beside him was now filled, and nicely so.

"Hey." she said, smiling.

"Hey yourself." He returned her smile.

A young woman, dressed expensively and sporting a mane of honey-brown hair, perched on the seat, and she looked him over with coy confidence. Her posture was welcoming. She put a tanned elbow on the bar and cocked her head. "Don't tell me you're here alone..?"

He smiled and motioned to the bartender to refill both their glasses. "What makes you think that?"

She laughed easily. "Nice try, I saw you check the booty out in here. If you had a date, she'd be furious about now."

She was right, he couldn't deny it. He coloured a little, busted as he was. He introduced himself and met her eyes, leaning toward her slightly. "So how 'bout you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm just stopping for a bit. I'm on my way to New York for a family thing. The drive was killing me. It's Iris, by the way."

He pitched then. "No, I mean, are you here alone?"

And she caught it handily. "Alone...hmm. Technically, yes. For now." She didn't add any more, and he raised his eyebrows slightly, interest piqued.

The conversation followed a predictable path. They liked the look of each other. Neither was staying for long, and both were, it seemed, looking for something this night. Any other details were irrelevant. And she was beautiful. Just the way he liked; obvious in her sexuality, and confident, with round, full attributes on a slender frame, and hair that was long and loose and caught onto her thick lashes when she tossed her head. He laid out his charms and she responded in kind. At times like this, when they were on the road and moments of leisure were hard-won, he didn't want a challenge. He wanted a girl who wanted him back, with an ardour that matched his own, and with no pretense over the need for long and complicated wooing. Or at least, not too much. Time was tight, sure; but he was looking for a willing partner, not a whore.

After a while, she leaned forward and whispered. "Listen...I don't want to seem... I mean... I'm staying at a nice little B&B nearby. It's walking distance. The chairs are a lot more comfortable there."

He got the drift. "Sure. Sounds great. Just let me settle up."

She rose and brushed her lips against his cheek in one fluid motion. "Just need to freshen up. Back in a minute." She left to go to the restroom.

Dean watched her go, appreciating the view. The bartender cleared away the empty glasses and Dean paid his bill. Worried for a moment about expectations, Dean turned to him and asked discreetly; "Hey, uh...the girl beside me...she's not..you know, a professional?"

The man smirked. "Don't know. I doubt it; she looks pretty classy, and we don't have alot of "working girls" in this fly-speck town. She's not local, I can tell you that much." He grinned wider and winked. "But hey, nice work there, Bud. She's a hot little handful."

Dean tipped him and stood as she returned. She edged closer to him and smiled disarmingly. "Ready to go?"

He nodded, and she took his hand and led him outside. In the parking lot, it occurred to him that Sam would appreciate a heads up. He rooted around in his jacket for his phone, but before he had a chance to hit the number, she stayed his hand. She pressed herself against him, planted her mouth over his, and breathed, "Let's go...now. Don't make me wait."

* * *

Sam scarfed down the delivered food in record time. It hardly mattered that it was well past warm, he tipped the delivery kid anyway, happy to be fed. When there was nothing left but wrappers and styrofoam containers, Sam cracked another beer, settled back on his bed and turned on the TV . He settled for a rerun of Bull Durham, a favourite of his, a film that didn't require him to think, but wasn't idiotic. He found his final treat, and opened the fortune cookie, reading the strip.

"Geese can be troublesome." He snorted, crumpling it and flicking it toward the waste basket. Yeah, that was meaningful. Note to self; watch out for the geese.

* * *

"A B&B huh...really?" Dean said uncertainly. He was used to more skeevy accommodations; these fancy, refined, excessively personal places made him intensely uncomfortable.

She chuckled at his obvious discomfort. "Relax, I've got the place to myself. No Ma & Pa Kettle dropping by with a tea-tray, I promise." She let him pull her closer as they walked, and her hand strayed over his backside, settling in his pocket and resting there. It was fully dark when they stepped up the stairs of the porch. It was the standard Victorian gothic brick, decorated with an over-wrought frill of painted wooden fretwork and surrounded by fussy gardens. The lights were all off; Dean was pleased that it seemed she was right, they would be alone. She unlocked the door, and before they could enter she caught him off guard, pushing him against the bricks and kissing him hungrily. He knew he'd chosen well, and he pulled her hard against him. After a few passionate moments spent there, they entered the room.

It was large, huge by motel standards, and dominated by a massive cannonball bed. If he'd noticed the decor, he'd have been disgusted by the ruffles and lace and dusty- rose everything. Another saccharine geese-wearing-ribbons decorating job. But he wasn't seeing anything but her now, and it didn't matter how sweet and pretty and pristine the room was, things were going to get dirty.

"So..." he breathed. She didn't let him finish. She pushed him down onto the bed, her weight falling on to him. He thought that god had finally listened, and he responded to her forceful ardour. She pulled away then. "Wait.." she giggled. She leaned over and opened the doors of her bedside commode, retrieving a bottle. "Nightcap." She reached again and brought out a pair of crystal glasses., setting them on to the marble surface. The bottle was a fine old scotch, dusty with age, and she splashed some into each glass as he watched. She turned to him and handed him one. Her eyes were smoky, and she raised her glass in a silent toast. He touched the rim with his own and they drank.

The strong drink burned a pleasantly heated path down his throat. She took the glass from his fingers and smiled.

* * *

The channel switched to snow for the third time. Sam sighed with annoyance, having to rise from his comfort every time to try to correct it. He knew it had to be weather related. It had been brutally hot and humid for days, something had to give eventually, and when he was able to get a signal again, he abandoned the movie and switched to the weather channel. The warning that was trumpeted was hardly a surprise. Severe thunderstorm warning for the counties of- He lost track after recognising theirs. Great. It seemed unlikely that he was going to get to spend his hard-won leisure time entertained by the television. He glanced at his watch. It was close to eleven. For a moment, he thought of going out and joining Dean, where ever he'd ended up, but he knew he'd be tom-catting it, and he didn't want to cramp his style. And Dean would have found himself a spicy little tart by now, knowing his damned luck. Instead, he hunted through their gear until he found Dean's hidden stash of a half bag of smarties, grabbed another cold beer and settled down to read.

* * *

"That was nice.." he said, nuzzling her hair. "Now where were we?"

She kissed him on the lips with an aggression that surprised him, and bit him in the process. He protested, only but mildly. He was up for a little rough play, it was just about perfect right now. He tasted the metallic tang of his own blood and kissed her back equally hard, rolling on her and pinning her arms. "You're a wild little thing, aren't you?"

She smirked and squirmed free, rolling him and reversing their order on the bed. "Oh yeah. You bit off more than you can chew tonight, sweetheart. You have no idea what I'm capable of, Dean Winchester."

He froze instantly. "What..?" His eyes widened in shock. He hadn't revealed his last name to her; he never did that. "How do you..?" He ceased speaking as his tongue suddenly felt thick in his mouth. A wave of dizzying cold flooded along his veins, and he moved to push her off, but the wires frayed and failed between his brain and the rest of him. She laughed at his reaction, forcing him back down and holding his arms against the quilt, hovering close to his face. "Surprised? God, what arrogance! You shouldn't be. You make it your business to hunt others. You thrill at hurting them, when all they want is to be left in peace You do this over and over; and you never once thought you'd be hunted back?"

He struggled hard then, as he felt a strange sensation invade his nerves. The bones in his limbs melted, and he was swept by an icy fear as he realized he couldn't even curl his fingers. Her hate-filled leer blended into a whirling fun-house mirage, the bed fell away beneath his back as her voice became a distorted echo in the chasm that he spun down into. He blinked hard once, but nothing cleared, and even breathing ceased being automatic as paralysis rapidly claimed his muscles. He panted like a winded rabbit, and managed to form one word. "Why?!"

She held him down, and sneered at his panic-stricken impotence. "You have no idea who I am, do you? Well, you self-righteous, murdering prick; you will!"

* * *

..God he was sick of Stephen King. Sam tossed the book aside. It was just more of the same. The author might be considered a master at weaving tales of horror, but to Sam, it was all in a day's work. And the last thing he wanted to fill his evening with was a reminder of that fact. He was bored. Checking the window, he saw that it was still dry, the rain wasn't coming just yet. Fresh air and a walk was what he needed. He threw a tee-shirt on, found his sandals amongst his things, and headed out into the darkness.

It was still stiflingly hot, despite the late hour. He was glad their unit had air conditioning, otherwise it would have been like sleeping in a sauna. He walked up the highway, looking up at the starry sky and catching the bluish flashes of distant lightning. There were thunderheads building out there, it might be clear now but he guessed the morning would be wet. For once, he thought, the weather service might actually have gotten it right. Something wicked this way comes. Looked like it would be a mother of a storm. He walked about a mile, and stopped at the crest of a bridge that spanned a quietly burbling stream. The sign identified it as the Upper Goose River. He stood, leaning over the cement guard, listening to the gentle sounds of the water, and the occasional booming of a bullfrog challenging a distant rival upstream. He guessed that this was the stream that must have powered the mills of Lord's Mills fame. He squinted in the darkness to see, and some distance away, he could see the ruins of a stone structure illuminated intermittently by the approaching lighning. _Cool._ He might go check that out, when it was daylight. Right now, the sky seemed a little too ominous, and he thought he should probably head back. The mosquitoes were becoming more than a niusance anyway, and if he stayed any longer he'd be down a few pints to the little blood-suckers.

* * *

He awoke in decidedly less comfortable surroundings. No longer in the pink and frilly room, he was lying on an old, musty-smelling mattress, surrounded by crumbling stone walls. He could see a large square of natural light, and it was a shade of grey-blue that foretold the eminent sunrise. It confused him. He was in a building, why could he see the sky? It was too much to contemplate at the moment. He closed his eyes again against the nauseating headache that plagued him. It was a wicked hangover, and he knew from unhappy experience that it was the residual gift of being drugged. He tried to wrap his brain around the circimstances that brought him to this state. He remembered the bar...the girl. The brick house. It had all been going so well, but... it changed. Yeah, that's right...The willing girl, Iris, she was all over him, but...she'd called him by his full name. His eyes flew open, remembering. She'd slipped him something, the bitch! Fear awakened fully now, along with his memory. Her sweet expression had turned harsh and ugly. She seemed to know him, but he had no idea who she was or what possible issue she had with him. _Shit._ Ice crept through his guts. She'd acted like an ardent partner, she was certainly the aggressor in the bed. He'd figured he was in for a wild ride, but nothing like this. The scenario might have been hot several hours ago, while she lay with him, but now, it had a definite sinister cast. He knew he was in some deep trouble now.

The light was strengthening. He craned his neck to survey his keep. Stone walls, and the charred remains of ancient beams surrounded him. There was machinery; cogs and wheels, huge and rusted. It was some sort of ruin, half roofless now. It explained why he could see the sky, and why the whine of insects was so loud. He was sure he could hear water somewhere. The were no sounds of civilization. It was an ugly situation, but at least, for the moment, he was alone. Iris was absent, so he had the bed to himself, such as it was. Under normal circumstances, he'd have been thrilled. There were many times in the past that he'd woken up to a strange woman snuggled against him, and any one of those times he's have given his left nut to escape from the entanglement. But this morning it seemed his options were limited. He was bound, hand and foot, and staked to the dirt floor beyond the mattress edge. The fog of drugs rendered him slow to react, but when the realization hit him fully, he swore out loud. No one was around to hear it. He tugged at his bindings, then yanked hard. The ropes only tightened, and he felt the tingle in his hands that told him he was strangling his circulation by struggling. _Beautiful._ He stopped for a moment to regroup, and summed up his night. He'd met a girl. He'd been drugged, obviously. And early too. He was crestfallen to remember that nothing good had happened that could in any way justify his current state. Nope, this wasn't the result of some epic bedroom romp. As far as he could remember, he never even got close to making it count. And things pretty much went downhill from there.. He lay sprawled in the morning light, on his damp, cast-off mattress, frowning and twisting his hands until his wrists felt raw. _What the hell was this, now?_

* * *

It was past noon, and still Sam had heard nothing. It was an unspoken rule between them that when Dean stayed out late, Sam was not to disturb him until at least late next morning, for obvious reasons. And Dean, in turn, would at least leave a message as to his plans. Well, Dean hadn't done so, but that happened now and then. But he always answered his phone, even if it was bad timing, because the dangers they faced demanded it. Sam see-sawed between annoyance, anger, and serious worry. He stopped pacing and plunked down on the bed. He tried the phone again, but was met with the same result. He swore quietly and threw the phone onto the comforter. The paper was there, he picked it up and flipped through it, hardly seeing the contents. He stopped and re-read the article that brought them here. There was nothing unusual, nothing they might have missed. Maybe Dean was just occupied... He was about to discard it when something caught his eye. He held the page closer, and saw an anomaly. Everything about it matched the rest of the paper, the printing, the weight and texture of it, but when he examined it closely, he could see that the page had been carefully spliced in. He cursed their stupidity. The page wasn't even numbered, they should have picked up on that. It was a deliberate deception; it was specific and designed to intrigue only them. He dropped it, and fear knotted his stomach as the reality struck him. They were led here. Someone wanted them to be accessible, in a planned location, and it was someone who knew who they were and what they did. They must have been tailed for some time... He broke out in a cold sweat._ Christ, what the hell was going on here..?!_

* * *

He saw no one for hours. He figured that was a good thing, as he was about as vulnerable as he could get. But the thought had occurred to him that for whatever reason, he may have been abandoned here. It would be bizarre, to say the least. Why would anyone do that? If she had it in for him, this type of end was hardly satisfying. And besides, he remembered that his erstwhile date had vowed that he would know her. The way she said it, it seemed pretty important to the plot. He almost wished someone would show so he would know what the hell it was all about.

It had clouded over. Rain had begun to fall through the roof, and he could hear the rumble of thunder rolling . It echoed strangely in the ruin, which by now he had figured was a mill of some kind. It was torture, knowing water was just outside the wall. He was desperately thirsty. He had tried every twist, every position, but there was no freeing his hands and feet, and he finally gave up. He thanked whoever was responsible for the small kindness of the mattress. At least he wasn't lying on the muddy floor, which was getting slick with the wind-driven rain. The section of roof that remained intact was overhead, so he wasn't getting directly soaked, but enough drove through the hole to make him fairly miserable.

He couldn't see his watch, but he'd guessed by the shadows of the morning that the rain had begun around nine or ten. By noon, it was a torrent, and the thunder was frequent and deafening. His overshirt flapped in the gusting wind, and his sleeves and tee shirt had begun to cling to him with damp. Grit and leaf detritus blew in his eyes several times, eliciting a stream of vitriole. When he'd had enough, he roared her name, several times. It didn't produce Iris, but he felt a little better. His phone, jammed uncomfortably in a back pocket beneath him, vibrated for a third time. He knew it would be Sam, and that the kid would be worried by now. _Good..._ he thought._ Now get your butt out there and look for me, dumb-ass_. The ringing was a bit of comfort, even if he couldn't answer. At least he was still connected to the world, and Sam would figure this out. Sam would come, eventually. A pang of fear constricted his gut. He _had_ to.

* * *

Sam was without wheels, which was a problem. His only immediate option was to hitchhike into downtown. He grabbed his phone, the gun from under Dean's pillow, and his wallet, and headed up to the highway. Several cars passed, but a pickup full of hay slowed and stopped. A man gestured to him, and asked where he needed to go.

"I'm looking for the closest bar, I guess. I'm trying to track a buddy down, he said he was going in last night to find some place to hang out."

"Well that'd be O'Connor's, there's pretty much nothing else here that fits the bill. Hop in, just push the dog over."

Easier said than done. The animal that occupied most of the bench was monolithic; some sort of mastiff, and it growled a deep rumble of warning when Sam touched it.

"Max! Friend!" the farmer barked. The dog relaxed immediately, almost grinning, and it wagged as Sam pushed its bulk over and slid onto the seat. The young man was relieved, as Max looked like he could swallow Sam's none-too-small head without chewing.

They chit-chatted for the short trip, and Sam was let off in front of the establishment. He knew immediately that he had the right place. The Impala stood alone in the gravel parking lot. Sam's heart sank. Unless Dean was sleeping it off in the backseat, it meant he was separated from his car, and that set off a carillon of warning bells. He crossed the lot quickly, and saw immediately that the car was empty. It was locked, and he fished out the spare key from his wallet. It started without effort. Nothing was amiss inside, as far as he could see. Dean's phone wasn't there. He sat in it for a while, letting the car settle to a rumbling idle, and fretted. Several cars had joined him as he mused. The bar was opening, and he saw several people go inside. He shut the car down and followed them, hoping someone could shed light on where Dean could have gone.

The man behind the bar listened, and then a smile of recognition spread across his face. "Oh yeah, I remember him. He got lucky last night, or was going to. He had a woman with him, real good looking. They left together. She said something about walking, as I recall."

Sam breathed with relief., momentarily. So Dean had found himself a port in the storm. If everything turned out to be nothing, then his brother was simply a jerk for ignoring his calls. His relief vanished though, when he remembered the newspaper issue. He may have left with a woman, but that didn't mean she wasn't a threat. "You don't happen to know which direction..?"

He shook his head. "Sorry. I was stuck in here. But I can tell you she wasn't from around here, so could be she was staying at one of the Inns in town. There's a couple close by, The Federal Inn, uh, The Victoria, and the Goose Nest."

Sam snapped up. "Goose nest..?" It was the second reference to geese he'd had since the weird little fortune cookie. It was almost too much of a coincidence.

"Yeah. It's not really an inn, more of a private house that rents rooms. Nice place, just up the street, here. I can get the number if you want."

"Uh, yeah...thanks." Sam waited, and then took the slip of paper out to the car. He called immediately, but it rang and rang, finally turning over to voicemail. He left a message, and then drove to find it.

* * *

It was a short drive. He saw the sand-blasted sign just up the street, and pulled into the driveway. He got out and knocked, waiting anxiously for an answer. No one came, and he tried again, this time with the bell. When the door remained closed, he peeked in through the lace of a side light, but all he saw was a cat, pacing back and forth. He decided to try around back, following a cobbled path that passed a shed, where a sharp, rank odour struck him like a wall. He knew that stink too well; it was the unmistakable smell of putrefaction. He grew cold, praying it was just an animal that had gotten stuck, and he pried the shed doors open. A haze of flies greeted him, and dispersed. The stink was so strong that he gagged, and held his breath. An orange tarp lay along one side, and it was wrapped around something large enough to be cause for serious concern. He rolled it over, and more flies escaped. It was tied, and he cut the rope and pulled a corner away.

He was met by a horror. Two bodies, a pair of elderly people; had been bound into the bundle. He had to go out for a moment to gasp fresh air before examining it further, and when he returned he found the same tell-tale marks on each wrinkled grey throat. Dried blood, and gaping punctures. The newspaper... He pulled the tarp back over; there was nothing he could do for them now, and backed away. When he'd calmed enough, he shut the shed doors and quickly left the scene. Whoever had lured them here had gotten the details right. There were vampires at work here, and he panicked fully now over his brother's fate.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

He drifted off for a while, still feeling the effects of the narcotic, and tired from trying to think his way through this. When he snapped-to, he was in darkness. There were soft rustling sounds overhead, and movement high up. Bats. He shuddered, well aware of how damp he and his bed were. When the storm had passed, it left the air much cooler. He shivered, watching the steam of his breath rise and dissipate. He yelled for Iris again, not surprised that he heard nothing but his own echo. By now he was starving, and nearly thirsty enough to try to suck some moisture out of the dirty grey fabric of the mattress. The phone in his pocket had long since been stilled, but he knew it would be out of juice by now. He silently berated Sam for taking so damned long. He wished somebody would show their face, at this point he didn't care who.

It was a wish he would regret.

* * *

Sam drove the town, scanning every street, every lane, every place that he could imagine Dean may have ended up. He found nothing, no trace at all of his brother. He decided that the best thing to do was break in to the brick house, and look for anything that could direct his next effort. By now, he had been watching his rear view mirror warily, obsessively checking for followers. He didn't fear them, he actually wanted them now. He needed something, anything- that could link to Dean, and an enemy was now as welcome as a friend. But no one tailed him, he was sure of it. It seemed that only Dean had been their quarry, and apparently they were satisfied. It could be a clue in itself.

He prayed that the cops weren't yet alerted to the old couple's demise. He needed to go through that house. He drove back to the bar, parking there. No one would care about one car amongst many, if he parked on the street in front of the Goose Nest it would surely attract attention, and the last thing he needed was to be hauled in as a suspect in the deaths. While he was there, he thought to question the bartender one more time. He entered and pushed past the crowding patrons, catching the man's eye.

The barkeep nodded and came over. "Any luck with your buddy?"

Sam shook his head. "Not yet. Listen, can you describe this woman? Maybe I'll see her around here."

He thought for a moment. "Brown hair with highlights, past her shoulders. Parted at the side, I think. She had greenish eyes, or brown. Great body. She was wearing a short black dress, like one of those cocktail numbers chicks like to wear. Probably about five-five. Oh-I don't know if this matters, but she wore one of those charm bracelets, silver, I remember because it was loaded, and it jingled. That's about all I got for you."

Sam committed the details to memory. He then discreetly handed him a hundred dollar bill, which was a small fortune to him. "Give me a call at this number, if she shows again, will you? I'd appreciate it.."

The bartender looked at the bill in his hand for a moment.. "You some kind of cop?"

Sam shook his head vehemently. "No, no...nothing like that. It's just..." He sighed. "He's my brother."

The man stared at him for a moment, and then handed the money back. "You're worried, are you..?" he said, adding "I've got a screw-up brother myself. Keep your cash. I'll give you a shout if I see either of them again."

Sam shook his hand and thanked him. He left then, walking in the shadows until he was at the brick house. He skulked around the back, noting that the shed and its smell remained, so far, undisturbed. He pulled the screen door open slowly, expecting it to creak. It didn't, and he tried the brass doorknob. It turned, he was relieved to find it unlocked. He entered silently, and nearly tripped over the cat he'd seen earlier. It squalled at him, turning around his ankles in tight figure eights and offering a litany of complaints. He tried to shush it, but it was insistent. He realized it was probably famished, since its owners were lying out back in the shed, and lord knows for how long. He found a box of kibble, and dumped it out on the floor. The cat parked in front of the heap, purring happily, and Sam stepped over it and continued on.

The light was almost gone. He had to rely on his little LED flashlight, always in his pocket. He hoped no one noticed it from the street. He quickly scoured the kitchen, hall and livingroom, but found nothing of Dean. But there was a doorway off the hall, dead-bolted. He was fairly sure it was the entrance to the side wing of the house, and more than likely, the rental rooms were cloistered there, away from the owners' quarters. He turned the handle and entered another hallway. There were three doors, and all were locked. Unfazed, he jimmied the first with ease and gained entry. A quick glance told him that the room was unoccupied. Nothing was rumpled or disturbed. It had the staleness of having been shut up for some time. He abandoned it and tried the second. This room showed that it had been used, and recently. There were still glasses on the nightstand, an open bottle. He took a chance and switched the light on.

The bed was in disarray. That was predictable. But his next discovery wasn't. Beside the bed, scattered and kicked off in obvious haste, were Dean's unlaced boots.

* * *

Some time later, Dean caught a flicker from the thin beam of a flashlight. It moved back and forth as someone picked their way across the dark field, He raised his head and watched through the crumbled doorway as they approached, and when the visitor stood at the stone threshold, he recognized her. She shook her umbrella and propped it against the wall, and made her way toward him. She cast her flashlight across the place that the mattress lay, blinding him with the bright beam, and greeted him coldly. "Hi sweetheart. Did you have a restful day?"

His temper boiled over, and he swore at her. " What the f~ck is this?! Who are you?"

She ignored his angry tone. She had a backpack, she shrugged it off and pulled things from it. A small tarp, which she spread out on the damp dirt. And a Coleman lantern. She answered as she lit and adjusted it until the flame glowed white in the mantle. "I told you already. My name is Iris."

He clamped down on his fury, realizing he had to keep a cool head. "Ok, Iris. Now why don't you cut the crap and tell me what you want from me? 'Cause I'm guessing there's more to our relationship than last night."

She smiled acidly. "Oh, there's more. But I have to follow through on a promise first." She got up, and walked to a shadowy corner of the building. Lying prone, Dean could hardly see what she was doing, but he heard the distinctly familiar sound of old hinges creaking open. She hauled at the heavy, wet doors that opened to a place below. Some sort of cellar, he realized. She glanced at him once, then disappeared down the stairwell. In a few moments, she came back up. She wasn't alone. Four others filed through the opening behind her. Four pale, thin people; three males, and one a girl. It seemed he'd never been alone at all. They circled him, and stood watching him in silence.

"Dean, let me introduce you to my friends. This is Andrew. Tristan... Margritte. And Johan."

Dean stared from one to another, saying nothing. His heart beat rapidly in fear. The strangers lived below, in the bowels of this abandoned place, away from prying eyes, away from light. It didn't take a genius to guess their nature. "Vampires." he said in quiet disgust.

The one named Johan stepped forward and leaned over him. "Yes, hunter. Correct. Just as you read." He winked, and grinned wide then, showing his destinctive dental features. "This is my band, hunter. This is our nest. You are a guest in our home, we've invited you here for dinner."

Dean's heart was already in his throat. He tried to hide it. "Dinner guest, I get it." He turned to where Iris stood, and spat bitterly, "And where do you fit in, Iris? Are you just the whore they use to lure the lonely losers?"

She stood back a little, regarding him blandly. "No, Dean. Not any loser. You."

He stared at her. "Why? Why me? I don't even know you!"

Johan spoke in her stead. Dean turned to assess what he knew was certainly the leader. Johan was tall, good-looking, actually. He bore himself with an air of authority. "Iris is not one of us, but we count her as a friend. She has helped us in our quest."

"Oh? And what is that?" Dean didn't really want to know, but a talking vampire was better than a chomping one.

Johan crouched, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands loosely. He smiled in the lamp light, and Dean could see what a powerful specimen he was. His face was lean and lined, and if you could put an age to a vampire, he was about fifty. His accent was odd, of some germanic origin. His shoulder length hair was dark and wavy, and shot with grey. He had an aura of having known eons.

"To hunt the hunter. To right the history of wrongs perpetrated by your kind. Vengeance, if you want to put a title to it."

Dean was in a cold sweat. This was not a negotiation, he had nothing to put on the table. They had him, this was it. "You hunt hunters. How many?"

Johan shrugged, as if it was of no importance. His rich, soothing voice echoed in the space. "Seven now, I think, before you. Lovely Iris was not part of that. She came to us, not long ago. She learned of our quest, she wanted you specifically. Has she told you why?"

"I haven't, yet." she answered, staring levelly at Dean.

"Well," Johan shrugged, "It is not my place to offer that. Her reason is well-earned, I assure you. But we are here for a different purpose." Johan grasped Dean's left wrist, picked up his loose, wet cuff and slid it up, exposing his arm to his elbow. Dean shrank from his touch, and tried to pull away. Johan smiled gently. "Shhh. Don't struggle. Why waste your precious energy?"

The others were busy behind him, They had built a fire in a small ring of stones, and they coaxed it to a bright hot flame. It cast eerie shadows and twisted orange shapes along the stones. Dean felt the warmth begin to burn the chill off beside him, it was almost good. He couldn't see that they had pushed the points of several long, thin knives into the centre, and they turned them to heat more effectively as the temperature of the coals built slowly. They were patiently waiting for something, and it drove Dean mad with tension. He growled at him defiantly; "What are you waiting for? Just f~cking get on with it, you blood-sucking corpse!"

Johan glanced questioningly to his cohorts, but they shook their heads. He turned back to Dean with a patronizing smile. "Not yet. In a moment, I promise."

Dean struggled hard then. They could delay all they wanted, but he had to do something. He yanked and twisted, kicked and roared, until his wrists bled and he wheezed with exhaustion, and the mattress had worked its way half out from under him. But still he remained staked; spread-eagled like a vivisection. They sniggered at his efforts.

Johan reached forward and gently held Dean's chin in a firm grip to quiet him. His lulling voice was oddly mesmerizing. "You struggle to no end, hunter. Don't excite yourself, it will be wasted." He turned then, reached and grasped one of the knife handles, which was smoking now from the fire. The blade glowed orange with heat, the tip of it bright white. He knelt beside Dean, and as the terrified hunter watched helplessly, the vampire grasped his wrist, and pressed the length of glowing metal to the soft white underside of his forearm.

The smell of burning hair and skin was acrid. Dean gasped and screamed, jerking away as far as his ropes allowed. Johan held the blade firmly in place, and when it cooled he tossed it aside and grasped a second one. He knew exactly what he wanted to achieve; he pushed the hunter's shirt hem out of the way and pressed the blade across the tender skin of his belly as the others forced his squirming still. Dean lurched, and howled again in pure agony until cold hand clamped over his mouth. It seemed endless, but the blade finally lifted, and it left him writhing with searing pain. When he'd caught his breath, Dean croaked tearfully. "Why?...why are you doing this?!"

Johan's gaze was unfocused, he didn't respond. He gripped Dean's hair, forced his head to the side, and sank his teeth into the vein that stood out like rope at the hunter's sweat-slicked throat. Dean moaned in shock, feeling the puncture, the painful suction of the cold, dead mouth against his skin, as the odious sounds of feeding filled his ears. He began to black out. _i'm done... _he thought in misery, losing consciousness. A final despairing plea floated through his mind. ... _sammy...please_...


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sam shot awake in terror. Disoriented, he rubbed his gritty eyes, as the sound echoed in his mind, and he fumbled for the switch on the dash. He breathed in panicked gasps, shaken by the nightmare. Birds, black beating wings, so many that they obscured the light, and deafened him, a tangle of necks and wild eyes, and flailing legs and wings and screaming ..screaming. Geese. They were geese, black and terrorized into crashing and disorderly flight, flushed from sanctuary by some unseen threat. There was no story to it, just a sudden and shocking flash of imagery and sound. And at the end of it...

He found the button and turned the dome light on, and rooted under the seat for a bottle of water, drinking a few shaky draughts. He splashed more on his face, and stared at himself in the mirror until he felt grounded. He was sure he'd heard it. It had nothing to do with anything, just a floating, plaintive whisper, at the end. It came through like a whisper directly in his ear. Sammy... It was _Sammy_.

He was exhausted. It was a fruitless night of searching. He knew Dean was out there somewhere, minus his footwear. There was no explanation for it that would have a happy ending. He had to find him, before it was too late. The sheer chaos of the dream had struck him deeply. What did it mean? Why the damned birds? What the hell did the goddamned geese have to do with anything?!

He sighed and brushed his hair back from his eyes. Dawn was breaking on the horizon, he could see outlines now. _Good_, he thought. His wings were clipped at this early hour, being nearly out of gas and no twenty-four hour stations to be found. As soon as one opened, he'd fill up and keep searching.

* * *

It was two surprises. He awoke, which he hadn't expected at all. And he had company.

It was morning, the light filtered through the damaged roof, causing him to squint. He tried to shield his eyes, but found his ropes limitation instead. He turned his head slowly and groaned. She spoke from somewhere in the corner, where she stood uncertainly. "Good morning, hunter."

He knew the voice. "Iris." he acknowledged hoarsely, adding "You know my name." He closed his eyes wearily.

She stepped a few feet forward, haltingly, and sat on the tarp. She almost asked how he was feeling, but she held it back. She had to remember why this was happening. "Have it your way then, if you think it matters...Dean."

_..yeah, it matters._ He turned slowly to face her. He was still dizzy and faint, after his experience. He'd lost a lot of blood, enough to leave him fragile, but not yet enough to kill. He'd suffered severely. "Is it worth it, Iris?"

The question caught her off guard, she hesitated for a moment. "Don't ask me that. Not after what you did."

But he didn't know what that was. Here he was, trussed to the ground, hurt and hungry and weakened, and the reason behind it all was denied him. "I don't even know you...you have to tell me what my crime was, at least. What the hell do you have against me that you would do this to me?"

She turned away, remaining silent. When she could stand to look at him again, she couldn't help but note his pallor, and the film of moisture that shone on his face. She stole a glance at his burned arm. It looked painful, tight; a scarlet strip of blistered flesh. It had split and was weeping bloody lymph down to his elbow. His collar was smeared with dried blood that had kept oozing after Johan had taken his fill. Higher up, the punctures at his throat showed like stark little bullseyes. For a moment, she heard her brother's voice. _I won't become one of them, Iris, I promise you_.

She couldn't bring herself to justify it, not at this moment. Instead, she offered him water from the bottle she'd brought. He choked it down desperately, parched from the loss of blood. She pulled it away before he was finished.

"Thanks." he whispered, savouring the moisture in his mouth and throat. It was a strange moment. The girl who was the catalyst of this was the only company he had, now that it was daytime. The vampires had retired below. He tried again to learn what was the source of her hatred. "Iris, please...please...tell me why you need to do this to me."

The image flashed in her mind, of better days, days when she wasn't alone. Bright, sunny afternoons on the boat, while he taught her how to fish... Evenings at the cottage, tired and happy after a day out on the coast...god how he loved the sparkling water. Her face hardened. "Shut up. Stop talking to me."

He acquiesced. It took precious energy that he didn't have to spare. They both were silent for a long time. She watched him, as he drifted off for a while. She saw him twitch and frown, fighting his own demons in his fitful sleep. He said something; a name, several times. She knew enough about him to guess it was his brother. She thought more of hers. She was exhausted herself. Johan's schedule was opposite her own and to remain wakeful at all hours was a tremendous drain on her. She felt weak, and feared vulnerability to any influence from her victim's words. She put her head down on her crumpled jacket, just for a little while.

It was late afternoon when both found themselves awake. Dean was raging with thirst, and as she witnessed his distress, she grew deeply uncomfortable. _This isn't what I wanted..._she thought._ For god's sake, Johan, just finish this._ To assuage her guilt, she crept forward and put the half-full bottle to his mouth. He drank in fevered gulps until it was empty. He licked his lips, and groaned, "Iris, this is crazy...How come they don't just drain me dry, like they always do? Iris, why'd they burn me? Is this something you wanted?"

"No! God, no!" She stammered an answer. "I'm not some sadistic freak, like you!" But she did know why. He was there because she'd worked hard to make it so. She wanted retribution for what he'd done, but the circumstances were not of her choosing. Dead and in hell, that was what she wanted for him. As painful and as quick as her brother's demise. She wanted him held accountable, she hadn't requested any of the rest, but she knew the underlying reason behind the vampire's unusual cruelty. It wasn't as simple as sadism. "They do this because...because Johan needs his blood a certain way."

He didn't know what she meant._ His blood a certain way_...What the hell was that about?! What would be different about it after they'd done this...?

The reason struck him then. "Aw, jesus...adrenalin! He needs to feed on boosted blood, doesn't he? It's not enough to just drain regular issue, he's hooked on the chemicals. That's why the burning!"

She frowned and nodded, uneasy with divulging the details. "Yes. Adrenalin, endorphins, whatever you call it...everything your brain pumps into your blood when your body is in extreme stress. Johan needs it. He's over five hundred years old...there's wear and tear, immortal or not. He says it's how he stays so strong."

Dean blinked. It was a shocking revelation. As if a simple vampire wasn't enough of a threat, this one had to be an addict. He digested that little gem as she sat glumly beside him. "Oh I am so screwed.." he murmured.

She had nothing to add.

"What about those other ones...are they the same as him?"

She shrugged. "They feed. They go out at darkness and return before dawn. That's all I know."

Dean thought about what she'd said. He remembered the story, the article that had piqued their interest. It mentioned deaths, and 'ritual marks'. No ritual after all, it seemed...just wounds that were put there to feed a junkie vampire's habit. He did the math. Five vampires. If they were all into it, it would have meant a lot of set-up for them to feed the need. Victims would have had to be taken, and sequestered somewhere quiet and out of earshot. While the mill was a good fit, there would have been others with him. Vampires couldn't put off the thirst, addiction or not, and if he was the only entree that night, they'd have all gone away hungry, because so far he was still breathing. No, he was sure of it, there was only one who did it this way. But it was enough.

"Where are they now?"

"Below. It's morning."

.._Great._ He'd get to lie there for another twelve hours, pinned, parched, and waiting for them to wake up again and finish him off. His shoulders and hips ached from lying in the same position for so long. But it was nothing compared to the burns. And Sam was nowhere to be seen. A bitter despair overwhelmed him. "Well, for whatever reason, you got what you wanted, I guess. So tell me, Iris; why are you hanging around now? The fun doesn't start again for hours. Don't you have a place to go to? Your pretty room with the flowers and ducks and lace and all that shit, why don't you go there, have some wine and chill in a nice bubblebath, so you can be all refreshed for when they come back to make me scream again? Christ, why don't you just leave me alone now?!"

She looked away. Her response was so quiet he almost missed it. "I don't know."

He watched her as she answered. He sighed then. It seemed Iris, whoever she was, still had a conscience. He heard it in her voice. He pressed further, "Iris, whatever they told you, it's all lies. They're vampires, for god's sake! Look at me, there's nothing noble about any of this, it's just perverse. It's-"

Her mouth tightened in hard line. "Lots of things are. Like murder, for one."

He swore in frustration. "Jesus christ, I don't know what you're talking about! Who, Iris?! Just who is it that you think I murdered?"

She was growing angry. "Someone better than you. A fine person, who deserved anything other than the death you gave him!"

More evasion. She wasn't going to give up her mystery yet. He sighed wearily. "They'll kill me. Your noble Johan will fry me alive and then suck the life out of me right in front of you. It's ugly, Iris. It's wrong... You know that, don't you?"

She turned her eyes away. She wished they would do it quickly. She just wanted him dead. This other thing, it sickened her.

"It'll be on your head, Iris."

"I can live with it."

He believed her. She'd gone to great lengths to get him where he was, and she'd sought an unthinkable ally. She had no idea what she'd gotten herself into, but it seemed her reasons were so compelling that it didn't matter. He tried another tact, one that was far closer to the truth than if he'd begged for his own life.

"Iris, please.." he pleaded quietly. "Please...I have a brother, I'm all he has...he needs me, he's just a dumb kid-"

Her eyes flooded with sudden, unspent tears. "Oh yeah? Well that's just tragic, isn't it? I had a brother too, once. He was a simple, happy guy, who loved everybody. He didn't complicate life with politics or religion or judgements. He just lived and let live. One day he is attacked by something, and he wakes up and his whole world is different. He can't go out in the sun. He thirsts for blood. He has needs that defy everything...everything he knew before. For a while, he thinks of killing himself, because of what he's become, but he doesn't, because I beg him not to. For me, he promises, he'll try. It's a daily struggle, but he doesn't give in to his terrible urges, he accepts his life, he keeps trying to live up to what he knows is right, and good. He's so sad... lonely, he misses the sunshine, he misses his normal life. But then, he finds others like him, other people afflicted, who don't want to descend into madness, or evil, or whatever you want to label it. They were his lifeline. And they all tried so hard. Lenore; poor, deluded, idealistic; god he loved her. She tried to keep them all safe."

She stopped, dropping her head into her hand, and rubbing at her eyes. She turned toward him with a harsh and bitter expression. "You know, my brother had a name. Conrad. You ought to know it, since you killed him. You ought to know who he was. He was kind, and strong, and sensitive. He loved gardens. He cried when his dog died. He hated watching the news. He painted his front door bright blue because it reminded him of the sea. All he ever tried to do was live in peace. Then one night, you came. And you cut off his head with a power saw."

At last, the reason. Despite his dire circumstance, Dean was stunned by her revelations. He remembered that night, he remembered them. John had never allowed him to see the other side, there was only black and white and never a grey. They'd opened his eyes to an uncomfortable new shade that flew in the face of what he'd been taught to believe all his life. "I...I didn't know-"

"You didn't ask either, did you?! You just charged in like some f~cking mercenary, as if you had some God-given right to judge, to execute! I saw the blood in that room, I saw bits of flesh spattered everywhere; my brother's flesh! Good god, are you even capable of imagining how I felt at that moment? I came to pick him up at the end of his shift, we were going to grab a bite to eat, a midnight matinee, but he- "

She choked back the rest of her words, reliving the horror. "Lenore still believed in trying to co-exist, even after that. All it got her was torture. She died three months later, did you know that? Another god-damned hunter!"

His mouth was so terribly dry, he croaked a hoarse curse. He understood her now, and his remorse was genuine. "Christ...I'm sorry...I'm so sorry, Iris."

"Sorry?!" she wailed. She lunged at him, and gripped his throat hard, digging her nails in with her fury as he groaned in pain. "Liar! You hunters aren't sorry for anything you cause! You think Heaven will be your great reward because of what you do, but we'll all see you in hell!" She let go, sobbing in grief and anger, and wiped her hands in disgust, then turned her back and went outside.

He lay in silence for a long time, mind and emotions whirling, the bite at his throat throbbing from her grip. Everything about this was so ugly, he hardly had the conviction or strength to oppose it any more. He remembered that night, so soon after his dad died. He was so screwed up, he'd actually seen Gordon as some sort of powerful role model, who filled the void that was an aching chasm in his soul. He sighed in defeat. _Her brother... _Maybe she was right, maybe this was justice... He groaned, the pain of it all wearing on his psyche as much as anything. The shadows began to grow long, the colours faded. It was approaching sundown, and he knew they would start again soon.

_Iris._ She'd brought this about, and maybe she earned it. But he sensed something in her; a reticence, like she was a part of something that frightened and disgusted her, but was a necessary evil. If he kept her talking, maybe...maybe he could find some way to make amends and still keep breathing. He was running out of time. He called out to her. He wasn't sure if she was still there, but after a moment he heard her return. She came into view, and she stood, arms crossed, in sullen silence.

"Iris, talk to me."

"No."

He grimaced, the burns aching with a brutal insistence as he breathed. His clothing stuck to the raw wounds, but he couldn't do anything about it, and he shifted and groaned. She glanced at him and he caught the way her expression froze as he gritted his teeth and shuddered. He thought he saw a glimmer of sympathy.

"What..happened to the rest of them?"

She answered, world weary and indifferent. "Gone. Disbanded. Most were killed, a few found other nests. They stopped trying to be Lenore's dark saints. What was the point?" She knew what his next question would be. "Conrad had a good friend, Paul. He found this one and he and a few more joined Johan. He kept in touch with me, in secret. He told me about Johan's quest. Johan is a powerful leader, he'll keep the rest of them safe now."

Dean struggled to focus, his mind was sluggish. "Paul?"

"He wasn't with the others last night, you didn't see him. He refused to be part of this: he says Conrad would have hated my involvement, that it tarnishes my brother's memory. Ironic, isn't it? Despite everything, he still believes in a certain morality. He doesn't feed on animals any more, but he picks his victims carefully. For Paul, they have to be society's worst, at least then he can live with what he is. You'd have fit his criteria, I think... but he won't participate in what Johan does."

_Another vampire with a conscience_. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to that. But there were no such redeeming qualities in the leader of this band. "Johan is dangerous-"

She turned and laughed harshly. "Of course he is! He's a bloody vampire. And he has the balls it takes to lead; he will keep them safe from hunters, the way they should have been before you and the rest of them charged in."

He moaned under his breath. The effort to speak was taking a toll, but he had to keep her talking, he had to make her see what she was in the midst of. He inhaled carefully and continued. "Yeah, he's strong. And I see now why the vampire aspect doesn't faze you, but most of them are nothing like Lenore's group. Most of them feed without mercy, they don't think about who they terrorize and kill. And Johan's that much worse; he's an addict, Iris. He doesn't just feed, he tortures to fill his sick need... He cloaks it in his so-called quest, but it's bullshit. Who did he feed on before? What happens when he runs out of hunters? You think he'll just stop and do like Paul does? I doubt it! Like any addict, he won't blink at mowing you or anyone else down to get to what he needs. If he can't find a handy victim, who do you think he'll turn on to feed his habit? You think he'll just sip at some rat blood until he finds another hunter? He won't. He'll go after you."

She stared at him for a moment. He thought he'd gotten through... But she scowled and shook her head. "Sorry. Coming from you, it doesn't quite convince. I'm sick of hearing you. And you're absolutely right, I have no reason to hang around here while it's light. You want to left alone? Well have your quiet time, Dean. I'm going to rest and eat." She left him then, to wait in silence for the others to rise.

_Crap. _After a while, he tried to raise his head, but it was worse now. They'd taken so much blood already, with no time to replenish. He felt so weak, he could swear he was floating, other-worldly; it was an effort to open and close his eyes, let alone to think. It had been what, two nights? And another looming. Sam would be desperately looking for him by now. And Sammy was a bright bulb, he would find the trail, and quick, no doubt. Dean clung to that like a drowning sailor's lifeline. He knew that he wasn't the first, or the last of their victims. Vampires were predictable in that regard; they had one very pressing need. And this one went one further; he had a habit. It made him that much easier to trail. Sam would figure it out...the only question was whether he would still be breathing when he came.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sam was famished and exhausted, He realized he'd be useless if he didn't eat something. He could hardly concentrate. He located a fast food place, and growled in irritation when he saw it had no drive through. He parked and hurried in. The place was busy, several stood in line ahead of him. His mood was black, and he chafed at the delay. A family stood at the counter, several squirming, fussy children complaining and whining. They changed their minds a number of times as their harried mother tried to please them. The patrons in line behind her, including Sam, grumbled and fidgeted. One woman who was clearly stressed by the situation, sighed loudly and drummed her nails in irritation on the stanchion post. Sam gritted as he heard it, until the other sound reached his ear. A soft jingle, like tiny christmas bells... His heart began to race, and he looked her over. She had sunglasses on, and her hair was in an unkempt ponytail. Brown hair..honey brown. He stared at her hand as she tapped. A tangled mass of silver shapes was clasped around her wrist. It moved, and tinkled with a metallic tone. A silver charm bracelet...

* * *

Breathe in. Breathe out. Dean meted out is energy like a miser. He was desperately thirsty. They had offered him nothing; no water, no food; and as a result, he knew this was expected to be a short, one way trip. Hardly good news. He tugged weakly at his bonds. _Yeah, break right out there, Superman_. They seemed even more secure, but were exactly as before, the only variable was his own strength, which was failing fast. He snorted with a palpable bitterness and let himself drift. There was nothing he could do, it was up to god, or Sam. If he had any money to spare, the bet would've been on the latter.

It was dusk now. Iris had been gone for a while, and despite the nature of her company, he felt particularly alone without her there. He was growing more nervous by the minute as the shadows crept along the walls and began to join into a shapeless dark. Soon they'd awaken. _C'mon Sammy...c'mon_...He was tired and weak, and cramping from the position in which he was tied. He'd hoped to somehow reach Iris, to strike her human heart and convince her that this was wrong, but he'd failed, and she'd abandoned him, and now, it was frighteningly clear that there was absolutely nothing he could do to help himself. He knew that pain and death would come to him tonight. He was torn, feeling the pressure to make death-bed amends with his maker, but too proud and angry to begin. _Probably a waste of time anyway... _he thought bitterly._ I've sure as hell sinned enough._

His mind turned to Sam. What would become of him? The kid would find him, eventually, maybe dead for days, or more. He'd be sick with guilt, he'd beat himself up and go out and do something stupid. He shuddered at the thought of how he'd look. A withering, rotting corpse, like so many they'd dug up before, tied and stinking against the filthy mattress in the ruins. And the god-damned flies would be crawling everywhere, in his sunken eyes, his gaping mouth... Would Sam untie his stiff wrists and ankles and carry his disgusting remains away, to bury somewhere that seemed right? Or would his little brother burn him where he lay..?

He tugged frantically again at the ropes, as a sudden panic robbed him of breath. But of course, the ropes held. He closed his eyes and swore, with a vehement passion_. I can't protect him now. I can't do it... _He couldn't help it, the tears slid freely, and he begged his father's forgiveness out loud, over and over again. When he opened his eyes again, it was fully dark.

He saw a flash of light in a corner. Someone had struck a match, and the glowing tip of a cigarette waxed and waned with the smoker's pull. He wasn't alone.

"Who's there?" he demanded in a croak.

The figure stayed silent, drawing on the cigarette again, before answering. "No one you know." the voice finally said. Dean heard footfalls, dull thunking steps across the earth of the mill floor. The cigarette glowed, moving in arcs as the hand that held it fumbled with the coleman lantern. It flared and lit, and his face was revealed. A red headed man stood there. He had a pale freckled complexion, even his eyelashes were a pale orange, a true ginger. His hair was tousled and unkempt, and hung in waves across his face, half-obscuring it.

Dean's mouth went dry. "Who the hell are you, now?!" he demanded.

The watcher adjusted the lamp to a steady white burn, and then sat cross-legged on the ground. He dragged at the cigarette one more time and put it out against the earth beside him. "The bigger question," he said quietly, "..is who are you?"

Dean squinted at him. "What do you mean? If you're one of them, you know who I am! That's why I'm tied to the freaking floor, isn't it?"

The watcher. stared at him for a moment. "Yeah, you got me. I do know your name, hunter. But I don't know your heart. And I know you are responsible for the death of a good friend. A good man."

Dean realized who it was then. "You're the one she called Paul. You were her brother's friend."

"That's right."

Dean sighed deeply, resigned. "So, you're here, finally...what are you waiting for then? You want revenge, don't you? Well, here I am, I'm not going anywhere. You want my confession? Fine; I wish it never went down the way it did, but it did anyway. I wish I knew what they were about; Lenore and the rest of them. But I only knew what I was told, and I sure as hell wasn't in a state of mind to see any different. I wish your friend was still alive, I wish his fucked-up little sister could go sailing with him tomorrow, on his boat, in the sun.. But there's nothing either of us can do about it now. Why don't you just do what you have to before the junkies show up? Or isn't it enough for me to just die?"

Paul sat back. He showed no emotion, his voice impassive. "This has nothing to do with the others. I just wanted to see the face of the man that killed my friend."

Dean's voice broke with the strain. "I told Iris, I didn't know about everything then. If I knew about Conrad and the others, I would've done things differently. I never thought..." He had to stop, as emotion swamped him. "I never knew that they could choose...I thought they were all evil, that you were all a bunch of soulless predators. None of your kind up 'til then showed me anything that would change my mind. And I was taught that, by my old man. He had just died, when I found them. I was a mess...I was looking for scapegoats for everything."

He fought to get a grip on himself before continuing. "I tried to save Lenore. We freed her from Gordon, the sadistic sonofabitch... But it didn't matter that I figured it out, it was all for nothing, wasn't it.? It didn't matter that I found out that there was another side, didn't matter what they tried to do. She died anyway, and everything she fought for fell apart."

Paul watched him. He was a keen judge of character by now. He had to be, or else he couldn't choose his victims in such a way that he could live with himself. It was very important to Paul that he read people accurately, for the sake of his own conscience, his own soul. This man who lay trussed and harmed in front of him, had killed his best friend. It was enough to condemn him. But Paul had done his homework. He knew the history here, and he could see more in this one. He saw the conflict, the regret, the remorse. He heard the pain in his voice, and it wasn't a result of what they'd done to him now. His torture was his own.

And even more, there was Iris to consider.

* * *

Sam kept a constant eye on her as he sat in the car and wolfed down his meal. She was doing the same, it seemed. From his vantage point, he could see her as she ate quickly in the driver's seat, fiddling apparently, with the radio. He dropped his gaze anytime he thought she glanced toward him. He ate with a near frantic speed, starving and eager to resume the search. She in turn, seemed equally pressed for time. She seemed nervous, and he saw her check her watch repeatedly, and glance at the setting sun with a look of anxiety. He was sure he had the right girl. She fitted the bartender's description, and he knew from experience that she was Dean's type. He was finished long before she was, as a matter of fact, she finally packed up half her order and got out and threw it in the trash. When she returned to her car, she wore a grim look, and she threw it in gear with an obvious haste and left the parking lot in a hurry. Sam wasn't far behind. She was heading somewhere with a determined speed. He was going to find out where, as god was his witness. She was the only link he had to Dean, and he vowed to himself that he wouldn't lose her.

He hadn't counted on her recognizing the damned car...

* * *

.._Oh I don't think so! _she growled to herself. She knew that car, and it was no coincidence that she'd seen it at the restaurant, and even less so that it was now just two cars back behind her on the highway. She'd expected this. Little brother to the rescue. Well, she knew how to drive, and she had the advantage. She took the most circuitous route possible, and she didn't race, she drove with deliberate and careful strategy, winding through the streets with seemingly random twists and turns. As she glanced in her mirror, she could see him, he was clearly getting frustrated. She was sure she saw him swear out loud at several jogs. She even pulled over and entered a few businesses, a gas station, a convenience store, dawdling inside as Sam Winchester champed at the bit. When the light of day had completely failed, and her pursuer was duly frustrated, she made a swift and unexpected break for it. It caught him off guard, just as she'd hoped. They were in the bowels of a subdivision, a dark labyrinth of new and stupidly named streets, lined with garage-dominant, vinyl-sided boxes that all looked the same in the dusk. When he lost her taillights, he frantically screeched around corners, hesitating over left versus right until it was finally pointless. He pulled over, scanning the silent neighbourhood until it was too dark to see. He couldn't believe it; he'd lost her. He swore at himself, his bad luck, his stupidity. Tears pricked his eyes, he thumped the steering wheel hard with both hands and roared a string of curses. _Now what?! Now what-?!_

* * *

The vampire Paul sat in silence. his brow was deeply creased as he frowned. He sighed once, a heavy, deeply miserable sound.

Dean turned toward him wearily. "Just finish this, for god's sake." he whispered. "I'm tired. I'm nearly drained dry. They're burning me; it hurts so much I want to puke, but I don't have the energy. I can't fix any of this, and neither can you. Conrad is dead. And so is Lenore. And Iris needs her closure. If this does it for her, then just do it."

Paul heard him out. He was about to answer, but he turned toward the entrance, listening. He stood then, and strode toward the moonlit doorway. When he returned, he wasn't alone. Iris was with him. "Company." he said.

Iris glanced at Dean where he lay. She saw the dark circles, the translucent whiteness of his complexion, the obvious pain etched in his features, all of it accentuated by the harsh lantern light. She caught Paul's eye and looked away, ignoring his censure as she took her place on the tarp. Paul stood back, arms crossed, observing.

"Are they up yet?" she asked the vampire.

"No. Soon."

She nodded. "Why are you here now, Paul? I thought you didn't approve."

"I don't." he said simply. "But you're his family. I owe it to Conrad to see this through."

"Well that's noble of you." she said with more than a little sarcasm. "I'd have thought you'd have been more helpful."

He came forward and sat again on the packed earth floor. He glanced around the dark interior, and turned to her. "You seem to have it all worked out, Iris. You didn't need me."

"I could have used the support, Paul."

He snorted. "Support? For this, Iris? For who's benefit, your's or your dead brother's? Conrad would have been disgusted by this, and you damned well know it. Don't drag his good name into your twisted revenge fantasy. Johan serves his own sick purpose with this, and he hides that under the guise of his so-called quest. And he's full of shit, Iris, just as you are. This is not for your brother. You do this for yourself, and no one else."

She glowered at him, her eyes shiny. "No, it is for him! And someone had to do it.. God knows you weren't going to step up!"

He chuckled without mirth. "Aw, Iris. You just don't get it, even after everything he went through. You can't see what he saw, what Lenore fostered, in the middle of this bloody horror. But I know. I battle the same urges he did, it's an agony to deny myself the blood I can smell, and feel, pumping through the veins of everyone I meet. I know what he was up against, and I know what he was trying to retain. His humanity. And the irony is, even after he was turned, he had more of that than you will ever have!"

He got up then, and stalked into the darkness.

Dean was a captive audience to the exchange. It was an eye-opener, to say the least. The vampire had shown a measure of soul that should have been limited to the living, and the girl was the one who showed no heart. It was an eleventh hour revelation that would die with him tonight. He kept his mouth shut. What did it matter now?

* * *

Once he's spent his frustration, Sam took a few deep breaths and willed himself to calm down. He'd lost her, and it sucked. But she wasn't the only route, he just had to think...to _think_-

His heart was pounding in his chest, and he felt sick. He had to get a grip on his panic before it rendered him useless. He rubbed his eyes hard and stared at his reflection. "Smarten up!" he growled at the image facing him. "Think, for god's sake!" He thought of Dean, how he would act now. He wouldn't be sitting useless and crying in the car, spinning his wheels, that much he was sure of. He closed his eyes, and counted slowly until he felt a sense of control return. He just had to think it through, that's all.

He sat for a moment in the dark, drinking the last warm dregs from a water bottle. He didn't have his lead anymore, so what did he have..? Not much. He knew there were vampires involved, he'd seen the evidence. He ran through a checklist of what he knew was canon regarding their habits. Night activity, obviously. And a place to hide and hibernate during daylight hours. Isolation was key. They would need a location where they could rest safely, away from the activity of normal people. He'd been all over the damned town, searching for his brother. No location came to mind that fit the requirements. Of course the outskirts could have any number of empty barns, or ruined shelters, or... He rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes again. And there were the birds. Geese, of all things. He felt stupid even assigning them any significance, but they seemed to be a pervasive theme in the past few days. No, that was idiotic. He shook his head, trying to think of anything else that could harbour a clue. But nothing came to him. He thought again of the odd fortune in his cookie. It made no sense. He let his mind wander over his own route these past hours. The tavern, the helpful bartender. The B&B he was directed to...that was another coincidence, the Goose Nest. And it had turned out to be the right place, so the bird connection proved true that time. And waiting while Dean went out that night. Bored, and sick of television, he'd gone for a walk up the road. He remembered stopping on the bridge...the sign that said Goose River, or creek.

.._Jesus!_ His eyes flew open, and he sat up. He'd seen an old building from that bridge, a ruin of stone, in the distance. His heart beat in his throat as he fired the Impala up and threw it in gear. He remembered; it was the silhouette of an old mill, long abandoned. It looked overgrown and forlorn by the flashes of lightning in the distance, forgotten, ruined... It was perfect.

* * *

It was just Iris now. But soon, the others would come up. Dean knew that he was finished. He couldn't stop this, he never could have, and it didn't look like Sam was going to either.

"Iris.."

She was still angry from her argument with Paul. "What?!" she growled.

He sighed. He was giving up, and it hurt. "Iris, there's the knives, in the dirt, by the fire pit...how 'bout you pick one up?"

She looked at him in alarm. "Why?"

"Because...because you need to finish this, ok? I'm sorry. I really mean that. I'm sorry about your brother, and I wish I could change it. But you need to end this now. For both of us."

"What...what do you mean?"

"For f~ck's sake Iris, just finish me off!" he whispered. "It's what you want, isn't it? Please...please, just don't let them do it, not those things-"

His request shocked her. She stammered something, but before she could answer, the cellar doors opened, and Johan and his band rose from the bowels and strode toward them.

* * *

Sam was grim, but filled with renewed purpose. It had to be right. It just had to. He had some distance to travel, but for the first time, he felt he knew where he was going. The girl didn't matter anymore, he had a better route to Dean, he was sure of it. He floored it back through town, headed in the direction of the bridge. _Hang on, Dean_- he prayed with fervor. _-Just hang on_-

* * *

Johan greeted Iris. He took her hands and kissed them, bowing to her in a strange archaic ritual of social protocol. "My lady Iris." he smiled. "Tonight you will avenge your brother. This I promise you."

She was struck dumb, unable to repond. Wall-eyed, and overwhelmed, she simply nodded. The vampire leader patted her shoulder and found a comfortable place to sit in the earth. His retinue fanned out behind him, and began to prepare as they had done before, setting the fire up, collecting the knives from where they'd been discarded the previous night. They had brought wine up with them this time, and Johan opened a bottle of a rich, dark red, dispensing with the niceties of glassware. He took a deep draught of a bottle, and offered it to Iris. She accepted, still a little stunned. It was happening, tonight. This thing she'd set in motion was coming full circle. She swallowed a good volume. When she'd finished, she asked Johan, "Can I give him some?"

He looked at her quizzically. "If you like."

With shaking hands, she put the bottle to Dean's mouth. He accepted it and drank as much as he could pull from the bottle, thirsty and desperate to dull what he knew would be coming. She pulled it away when he started to choke and cough.

"Well, don't drown the poor bastard." a voice admonished. They looked up as Paul joined them. He glanced at Dean, and frowned.

"Ah, Paul...you've decided to join us tonight." Johan smiled. "Lovely. And appropriate, I think. Your Conrad would be pleased that his family and friends bore witness to this justice." But his eyes lacked the warmth of his words.

Paul shrugged. "Johan, you'll do this whether I'm witness or not. Don't pretend that it matters."

The ancient vampire chuckled. "As you wish." His followers had been stoking their fire, and they passed the wine around for a while, until the blades were ready again for their purpose. Both Iris and Paul refused to take more from the bottle, and none was offered the victim. Johan turned to Dean with his maddening smile. "Well, hunter, have you made peace with your god?"

Dean snarled and spat at him. Johan accepted the rebuke with surprising grace, simply wiping the insult away, his mild expression unchanged. But his eyes sparkled with unnatural light. "Oh yes," he said. "Go to your death with spirit. Fill your veins with vitriole, hunter. I will feed on it, and your passion will make me strong!"

Dean snarled a curse, and looked away.

Iris hugged her knees to herself, and rocked slightly where she sat. It was almost too much, and she repeated a mantra quietly to stay the course she'd set in motion. "For Conrad.." she whispered, over and over. Paul watched her, his mouth a grim line.

The lesser members nodded to Johan. The blades were sufficiently heated to harm. Johan accepted one from their hands, and held the steaming knife up in the chilled air, turning it languidly for Dean's benefit, admiring as its glowing length radiated waves of heat. Dean's eyes grew dark with panic. His heart rate leapt as the vampire tugged at his sleeve, exposing his other arm. His motions were slow and deliberate, designed to instill terror. Dean struggled, but he had no power left, and cool, firm hands held him down. There was muted laughter somewhere. "Iris-" Johan smiled, his voice like dark honey, "Would you like to do it?"

She hesitated, but came forward. Clearly pleased, Johan passed the handle to her. "Go ahead.." he coaxed. "You earned this. Do it, Iris. Do it for your brother, for poor Conrad."

Dean turned to her in desperation. "Iris, don't! He wouldn't want this! You know it! It's the opposite of what he believed in-"

Johan clamped a hand over Dean's mouth. Iris held the blade in her shaking hand. She stared from Johan to Dean.

Paul tensed. "Iris-" he said softly. She refused to look at him, and she shook her head. Her eyes swam with tears, conflicted and angry and frightened. Her fingers tightened on the handle, and she began to cry as her hand hovered over Dean's arm.

Johan stroked her hair. "Go on..make him pay for his sin." he breathed seductively in her ear. She blinked her vision clear and dropped her trembling hand, touching the bright point to Dean's skin. It sizzled immediately. Dean shut his eyes and choked back a sob as tears squeezed from between his eyelids.

She felt him lurch. The firelight reflected in the wet streaks down his face. Her stomach clenched in horror and she jerked it away. "No-" she stammered, shaking her head. "NO!" _He was right...he's right...It was everything Conrad fought- _She tried to back away, strangling with emotion, but Johan gripped her arm. He pulled her back and grasped the hand that held the blade, and forced her to press it's length firmly against Dean's arm.

His scream echoed across the field.

* * *

Sam had parked as close as he could to the ruin. It's ragged outline loomed in the distance, and he could see no path. He would have to walk through the dark tangle of weeds the rest of the way. He was rifling through his coat for his flashlight, when he heard it. A distant wail...a broken howl of pain, of a timbre that was terribly familiar. His head snapped up and he paused his breath, listening. He began to run.

* * *

Iris struggled like a cat in his grip. She could feel Dean writhe and strain under her hand, she wanted to shut out his scream but her arms were held firm by Johan. "Stop it!" she sobbed, "Let me go!"

He did then. She twisted away and fled.

Johan frowned. He watched her for a moment, as she stumbled out into through the dark field. Iris was lost to them now. He knew it. He'd hoped to groom her, he liked the look of her and he'd intended to turn her and add her to his band. But she'd shed his influence in favour of the weakness of human empathy, and there was no going back. He tersely ordered them to heat another knife.

But Paul leapt to his feet. "Enough!" he roared. "ENOUGH!"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Iris fled blindly through the weeds, stumbling and sobbing. She collided hard with a figure in the darkness. Shocked, she fell to her knees. winded and dazed. Before she could scream, a big hand hauled her to her feet and silenced her. "Shut up!" he hissed. He shook her hard. "Where is he?! Where's my brother?!" Bewildered and terrified, she couldn't utter a sound. She pointed wildly to the ruin. He pushed her away and ran.

* * *

Paul had seen what he needed to. Iris had seen the light, she'd rejected the twisted path she'd chosen and she was worthy of his efforts on her behalf. He was sick of Johan and his band; he hated the perverse activity, the rationalizing, the relentless torture of hapless victims. It was hard enough to deal with his own unholy nature without their warped outlook. He knew that Iris was in danger now, as much as the hunter was. It was time to act. He threw himself at Johan, who had no chance to brace for the unexpected impact. Paul surprised the ancient and knocked him down, rolling him away from where Dean lay. Johan was not accustomed to opposition; it caught him off guard completely. Paul immediately leapt free of the entanglement, and in one fluid motion he scooped up one of the knives from the earthen floor, crouched over Dean and severed the rope bonds that held him. He didn't wait on a thank-you, because Johan took him down in a snarling leap.

* * *

Sam tripped and stumbled through the overgrown pasture, and as he approached the dark wall, he saw the flickering light spilling from the doorway of the ruin, and he knew this was the place. He didn't hesitate; there wasn't time, and he bolted across the stone threshold. He skidded to a stop on the earthen floor and scanned the interior wildly. Vampires; just as he expected. A fire burned off to the side, and a lantern illuminated the space. He'd stumbled into the middle of a battle; there were figures rolling and growling, pummeling each other in the dirt. And in the centre, a figure lay; spread-eagled and tied. -_Dean- _In a split second, he assessed the conflict, and hurled himself without hesitation into the thick of it.

Dean was in a bad way, but aware enough to know he was suddenly free. He found his hands and feet were loose, and ignoring the fresh pain of his newest burn, he used every ounce of his strength to roll off the filthy mattress. When his stiff fingers found dirt, he crawled; clawing frantically at the soil, trying to get as far away from Johan and the others as he could. He heard shouts and screams and curses, but he had one single-minded purpose now, and that was to get the hell away. It was agony; his raw and blistered skin dragging across the rough ground, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. He focused on the doorway as he pulled himself along. Whatever else was going on behind him, he couldn't aid it. He pushed the pain aside and forced himself to keep moving; it was the only thing he could do. He was too weak to plan any further than conquering the few inches of soil in front of him. For a moment, when he saw the moonlight through the doorway, he felt like he might actually make it.

His optimism was short-lived. He felt the weight of a heavy body flatten him to the ground, and he tasted dirt as the breath was knocked out of him. An unfamiliar voice growled something, in a language that was strange and foreign. Sharp teeth bit into his shoulder, his thigh, the back of his neck. He raged and kicked at them, but they were too strong and too many. He curled up against the onslaught, helpless to repel them. He knew he was done. He shut his eyes against his whirling vision, and covered up as well as he could. He almost said a prayer.

He needn't have. The weight, and the stabbing pain of their vicious teeth, suddenly lifted. The second he felt it, his instincts kicked in and he rolled sideways, and when he found the comfort of the wall behind his back, he braced himself against it and tried to comprehend the situation. He blinked and panted, as a blur of movement filled his view. When it made some sense, he pressed himself flat against the wall, hoping to remain invisible, and watched helplessly as a melee erupted around him. The vampire Johan was standing alone, away from the others. He wore a look of wild-eyed rage, all traces of his strange, old-world gentility now erased. The one called Paul was embroiled in a battle for his life against the lesser vampires. He was tall and sturdy, but there were three of them, and they clung to him like leeches, clawing and biting. He kicked at one hard, forcing him to retreat, and then grasped the girl they'd called Margritte, sinking his teeth into her throat and tearing as a fountain of blood erupted. She made a strangled protest, scratching lines into his face, and he let go, knowing it was enough to slow her down at least. As she crawled away to safer ground, the remaining two vampires struck at him from opposite sides and the trio went down in a kicking, flailing heap. Paul was strong, but he was losing ground against the other two, and he shouted desperately to Dean.

"You! Go to the corner, over there, dig up the dirt! Do you hear me?! Give me the stakes!"

The rest of his order was cut short as the one named Tristan pulled him down and tried to tear his throat out. The words penetrated Dean's foggy consciousness, and he understood. _Stakes- _Paul had hidden a handful of them under loose soil, in case things came to this. Dean gritted his teeth and hauled himself up onto hands and knees, and cursing his unfamiliar weakness, he scrabbled to where Paul had pointed. He clawed at the earth in a frenzy, until a paper-wrapped bundle was revealed. Inside, a half dozen fire hardened points lay ready. Dean tore them free of the wrapping and grasped what his nerveless hands could hold, turning to where Paul struggled. He took a split second to assure that he wasn't arming one of the others before throwing one toward his ally.

It rolled a foot away from Paul's reach. The vampire grunted and strained under the onslaught, they pulled him backward but he fought hard, gaining ground, clawing at the earth wildly until his fingers touched the smooth, blackened wood. The second he felt it, he gripped the stake, twisted and drove it through the chest of the one on top of him.

Andrew screamed a brief howl. He clutched at the protrusion, with an expression of disbelief. His eyes rolled up and seconds later he fell like a ragdoll.. The remaining one, Tristan, witnessed the demise, and he hissed in fury and threw himself with mindless rage onto Paul as he extricated himself from beneath the heavy body.

"Dean!" Paul growled desperately. "Another! Throw me another!"

He would have, if he was able. But Dean was otherwise occupied. Johan had worked hard this night to get himself his fix, and he was damned if he was going to let it go to waste. He stalked toward Dean where he sat propped against the wall, grasping him by the throat and hauling him down. The predicament of his band meant nothing to him; he hardly acknowledged their battle as he moved. Eyes glazed over and salivating with need, nothing would stand in his way now. Dean uttered a yelp, but was instantly silenced, and Paul couldn't help him. Dean's view was filled with the looming face of the dark vampire, but he was spent and powerless, and he dug his fingers into the dirt as Johan yanked his head back by the hair. He gasped once as he felt the teeth pierce below his adam's apple.

* * *

But the vile, slurping suction never came. Suddenly, his vision was clear of Johan's tangle of dark hair, and the hand holding his head released, as the knee on his belly lifted. A sound of struggle, an anguished howl... Dean fell back against the cool soil, in shock and bleeding heavily. Sound was distorted, and light danced and writhed. Another figure stood there now; tall, dark-haired and familiar. Dean lay still, staring at the apparition, deafened by the roar in his ears; mute and struggling to comprehend. _Sam_..?

Sam stood over him, panting, holding a bloodied stake in his hand. He threw it aside and knelt. "Dean! Dean, can you hear me?!" He pressed his hand firmly against the freshly torn wound at his brother's throat.

Dean continued to stare, blinking several times. Finally a light of recognition flashed in his eyes. "Sam..." he mouthed.

Sam nodded. But he abruptly disappeared from Dean's sight. There were more muffled sounds of conflict, a brief cry, and then silence. Dean didn't dare to breathe. His world spun lazily, he could neither see nor hear with any clarity, and he closed his lids to stop the nauseating rotation. He wanted to stay alert, in case Sam needed him, but his eyelids were so heavy. .._so tired_.. The fog wrapped around him, muffling the world, softening its painful edges. He felt as if he was sinking into soft, powdery sand, and he welcomed it.

* * *

"Dean? Dean! Hey, c'mon man, stay with me.."

Sam held him up off the ground, supporting his lolling head on his arm. His brother's eyelids fluttered open, and moved his hands a little. His left hand found Sam's sleeve and he grasped it and clung to it, fearful that the comforting illusion would fade. His eyes were rolling, but he focused with difficulty on the face in front of him. _It's real_...He tried to say something, tried to say his brother's name, to warn him, admonish him for how long it took. _Thank_ him. But he could only blink in an exhausted stupor.

Paul, disheveled and puffing from his battle, leaned heavily against the wall and spoke tersely. "Get him out of here!" He fell to his knees then, clutching his side. A blood-smeared stake protruded from under his coat.

Sam was wary of this strange ally, but at the moment he took him at face value. He was a vampire, but he'd gone against his band when it counted most, and it saved Dean's life. "You're hurt; what about you?"

Paul said nothing. His compatriot had driven the stake in hard, but fortunately Tristan's aim was poor. He ground out a curse as he gripped the wood and pulled it from between his ribs, dropping it to the dirt. "It won't kill me," he panted. "-You know that." Even as he spoke, the flesh was knitting; closing over the ragged wound. He pointed at Dean. "But this one has no time! Go!" He got up and stood weaving, and stumbled out the doorway in search of Iris.

Sam turned back to his brother. Dean's condition alarmed him. He was ashen; so colourless that he was nearly translucent. He was clammy with sweat, and had suffered severe blood loss. Sam knew he was critical. He gathered up Dean's limp arms and pulled him up, then crouched and slung him over his shoulder. Dean groaned, stiffening against the contact, and fell silent. Sam rose with difficulty, but he managed the weight, and he headed swiftly for the open ground, pausing in the doorway to look back. All the vampires, with the exception of his red-haired ally, lay sprawled; blood-spattered and silent, scattered around the mill floor. He turned and headed out into the darkness.

* * *

He got to the Impala, and lowered his burden carefully to the ground to open the door, glancing around nervously. No vampires followed, thank god. And the red haired one and the girl were nowhere to be seen. As Dean sat slumped against the tire, Sam quickly retrieved their med-kit from the trunk. Blood still welled from the bite Johan had delivered, and Sam expertly pressed an adhesive patch over it. Dean opened his eyes and squinted at him, trying to focus. He gave up. "Freezing out here..." he mumbled.

It wasn't, of course. It was the dead of night, and the air was damp, but it still held the warmth of the season. Sam peered at him in renewed alarm. Too much blood lost; they really had to hurry. He pulled the handle and opened the door. The dome light illuminated the back seat, and he bent down to pull Dean's limp form across the seat. He gripped his arms, and Dean gasped.

"Sam, don't!"

Sam let go, instantly halted by his strained and anxious tone. Dean pulled his arms close. He shuddered and made a sound that cut to Sam's core.. "Aw, christ-" Dean winced, screwing his eyes tight.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Sam demanded. He found his flashlight and shone it over him.

"They burned me." Dean whispered.

Sam's light reflected in the wet trails that were still drying on Dean's face. He caught sight of one of the marks. He carefully exposed his arm further, and stared in disbelief at the dark, blistered weal against tender white skin. A burn; raw and new. He checked the other arm and found it in the same state. Dean moaned slightly at the brush of cotton. Biting back rage and horror, Sam lifted his brother's face gently, forcing eye contact. "What did they do to you?!"

Dean didn't have the energy to explain. He closed his eyes as a tear escaped his damp lashes and trailed back across his temple, disappearing into his sweat-slicked hair.

Sam forgot to breathe. When he found his voice, he asked, "Is there more?"

Dean nodded, gesturing toward his middle.

When Sam lifted his brother's shirt, he swore in dismay. The sharp odour of scorched skin reached his nostrils, and he was overwhelmed with rage and pity. He looked away, his jaw tight, eyes pricking with the emotional maelstrom. They'd nearly drained him dry, he'd expected it considering their nature. But they'd tortured him. They'd burned him deliberately. _Why?! _He had to push it away, for the moment. He had to focus on getting Dean out. He gathered him up again, glancing around one last time in fear. The ones he and Paul had dispatched seemed to be staying where they'd left them, but he hadn't been able to assure that it was permanent with all of them, and vampires had an annoying habit of resurrecting at the most inopportune moments. He pushed his hands under his brother's limp shoulders and knees, and hauled his rag-doll form up on to the seat. Sam felt his breath quicken against him, and Dean stiffened as his clothing pressed into his wounds. He cursed once and slipped into silence. Sam wasted no further time, and the engine roared to life as he threw it in reverse and spun the tires in the gravel.

* * *

He had no idea where the hell to go. He hadn't seen any hospital as he drove the streets in search of Dean. The town was a fly-speck on the map and was likely served by some regional facility. He couldn't exactly google it as he drove. He headed toward the centre of town, praying there was a sign. He already knew there were no late night gas stations where he could ask, and he had Dean's ingrained reluctance to call 911, knowing it would bring police. They'd pretty much fled their last job, with a chorus of sirens encouraging their hasty departure. He glanced back at Dean. _Shit_. His face was as damp and white as he'd ever seen it. He may not have a choice this time..

It was if Dean had read his mind. "..just get me home, Sam... motel."

"Dean, I think-"

"..too many cops."

Sam sighed miserably. "I know, but-"

Dean was fading. "Sam, call David...it'll be ok. Just call David." He was silent from then on.

Sam listened to his breathing. It was irregular, and laboured. If he knew where the damned thing was, he would have driven straight to the emergency ward, threat of arrest be damned. But he didn't, and precious minutes were ticking by. He cursed in quiet desperation, took one more look at his brother, and dialed. When their friend's familiar, groggy voice answered, he felt a flood of relief. "David; it's Sam. I need your help!"

* * *

David Bowman sat down, the familiar dread a cold knot in his innards. "Where are you?"

"_Pennsylvania, some place called Lords Mills. You've gotta come quick-"_

The good doc was prepared, as always, for an emergency flight. "Give me the details, Sam." he said, as he kicked off his slippers and hunted for some socks. He listened intently to the younger Winchester's anxious description while he dumped a massive load of kibble out for his scruffy, grinning dog and checked that the toilet seat was up, since Mayhem prefered that to his water dish anyway. He stopped cold as Sam finished his description. "Damn!" he swore. "Jesus bloody hell! Sam I don't know if there's time, his blood pressure is probably critically low. Where's the nearest facility?"

_"I don't know. All I know is that it won't be in this town, and nothing's open so I could ask, and.._" He exhaled a shaky sigh. "_And there's a problem, David. Dean and me, we got into a bit of a scrap with the state troopers at our last gig; they're probably looking for us. If I call 911, or we go to a hospital; well, you already know how that could end up."_

David did know. The circumstances of their first aquaintance came to mind sharply, and even he couldn't face that again. Even while he spoke, David continued to get ready for the trip. He knew through experience how this usually went. They never had the luxury of time. "What about the bites, are they bleeding a lot?" he asked as he collected his laundry from the livingroom and stuffed it into a travel bag.

_"Not like they should be."_ Sam said grimly.

David grunted, holding the phone with his shoulder as he pulled on his second shoe. "Jesus, why can't you guys ever take a break?! I'd have thought you'd lay low for a while after you caught flack earlier." He grabbed his watch and phone charger from the mantel, snatched his glasses from the counter, ruffled the dog's ears and locked the door behind him.

"_We were, David_." Sam protested. _"This thing went down without our even trying this time. We were targeted. Long story."_

David opened the car door, checked for his wallet, and threw his bags in back. "Targeted? Well, are you safe now?! With the shape he's in, Sam, you'd better make sure nothing else tries to take it's pound of flesh. Keep your gun, or whatever the hell you use, handy. Otherwise you and I will be scoping out a burial plot when I get there."

_"Yeah, I hear you."_ Sam wished he could say that the threat was gone, but the truth was, he wasn't entirely sure. He began to regret coming back to the same motel room, but he hadn't had much choice. _"How long 'til you think you'll get here?"_

"I don't know; depends on how quickly I can pick up a flight. If I can't get a seat right off from Atlanta, I'll have to charter something smaller. It'll be hours, at the very least. Is he conscious?"

Sam turned to the back seat where he'd laid his brother out. "Dean?" Dean raised his fingers in answer, and Sam continued,_ "Yeah, sort-of, for now."_

"Get water into him. He'll be dehydrated, just keep pushing the fluids, but no booze, got it? Clean him up, but don't put anything on the burns until I can assess them, you know the drill. And drink plenty yourself, and eat something, because I'll be drawing what I can from you when I get there, there's no time to pilfer anything from the hospital."

Sam understood, it was a constant blessing that the brothers shared a blood type._ "I will...and thanks, David."_

"Keep in touch." David clicked off, threw his cell onto the dash and floored it out of his driveway.

Sam turned back to Dean. "Ok, you got your way, as usual. Just stay with me, you hear me? Don't you dare make me regret this!"

* * *

The drive back was short and swift. He pulled up to the darkened motel and parked, exiting quickly and opening the room, checking to make sure there were no unannounced visitors. He returned and began the difficult task of getting him out of the car. "I'm going to pull you out this way, Dean. It'll only take a second." he warned. Dean complained softly at the motion, and Sam hauled him up to sit. "Are you ready? Do you think you can stand?" Dean made a motion that Sam took as a nod, and he hooked his arm under his brother's shoulders and pulled him up. But there was no way that Dean could support himself. He slipped toward the pavement so quickly that it caught Sam off guard, and he caught him around his middle and lowered him gently. Dean clawed his hand away from his midriff with a choking cry. He lay on the gravel, swearing and writhing for several moments, as Sam protected his head off the sharp stones. "Don't touch me!" Dean panted. Sam had no choice; if he hadn't grabbed him he'd have fallen hard into the gravel, but regardless he felt awful. When Dean had calmed some, Sam tried again, slipping his hands under his knees and shoulders, and carrying him in.

He laid him on the closest bed. "You ok..?" he asked, still puffing and sweating from the exertion. Dean's face was still taut, but he nodded unconvincingly, and Sam turned and quickly locked the car and shut the door. He locked that too, and tested it. Satisfied, he felt safe, for the moment. He went to the bathroom and returned with a glass of water and towels.

Dean lay on the bed with his arms turned up and his hands curled into fists. He was breathing heavily, in obvious pain. Sam sat beside him. He wasn't sure how much his brother was taking in at the moment, but he spoke to him anyway. "You're safe now, Dean. They're all gone, the vampires are finished. And David is coming, he'll help you. You just have to stay with me 'til he gets here, ok?'

Dean nodded, but it was almost automatic now. He barely heard the words, and his awareness was compromised by weakness.

Sam watched his reactions. His guts tightened, as he recognized the symptoms as Dean began to succumb. He was in a pallid sweat, nearly camouflaged against the white of the pillow. He didn't answer when Sam spoke his name again, his eyes remained half-closed. He labored alarmingly to breathe. Sam pressed his hand to his chest, and his heartbeat felt like a stricken bird fluttering against his palm.

_Shit! No no no, don't fade on me now!_ David was still too far, it couldn't wait. Sam lunged for the med-kit. He popped the box lid, scattering its contents across the bed, and ransacked through it, snatching up what he needed. "Don't you leave me now, you sonofabitch!" he growled. He hiked his own sleeve up and wrapped a length of surgical tubing tightly above his elbow, cinching it with his teeth. He loaded the needle onto the oversized syringe David had provided, and pierced his skin where his vein bulged, watching anxiously as blood flooded the cylinder. When it was full, he pulled it, forced any stray air out and reversed the process on Dean's arm, finding a vessel and pushing the plunger, and watching the contents empty into Dean's starved system. He had to tell himself to slow down, several times. David had warned him of transfusion shock; and to push the syringe as slowly as he could, but his instincts were screaming to get the blood into Dean's system as fast as possible. He counted the seconds timing with his own breathing, pacing the delivery. He did it several times more, pushing the limit on his donation, stopping only when he began to feel uncomfortably dizzy. He hoped it was enough to make a difference. _God-damned blood-sucking filth!_ He sagged against the headboard, light-headed, watching Dean's chest rise and fall. He seemed eased somewhat, at least. His heartbeat felt stronger and a little more regular. He wasn't exactly sure how near he'd been to losing him, but it was damned close to the wire; he'd never seen him so colourless. He sighed deeply, trying to release some of the tension within, and closed his eyes.

* * *

"Hey."

Sam's eyes flew open. He turned and saw that Dean was watching him, and he offered a weary look of sympathy. "David's on his way. You've got a couple of my pints in you, to fill you back out a little. It'll cost you."

"Gross." Dean whispered. He grimaced then, shuddering at the clothing stuck to his scorched skin. He was unhappily alert now, and he ran his tongue over his dry lips. "God, I'm thirsty. Pour me a shot of something strong, Sam."

"Man, I wish I could, but David said not to. Maybe later." Sam gave him water carefully, making sure he kept the fluids coming. He could see the taut evidence of suffering in Dean's face. It lit a fresh rage in him.. "Why the hell would they do this?!"

"They were addicts." he coughed, his eyes screwed tight. "They wanted...the adrenalin, or something I dunno." He stopped, as the pain of the burns began to peak beyond his tolerance. "Aw-" he grimaced, rocking and unable to hide his distress. "Aw, jesus! Sam, you've gotta give me something, please!"

Sam couldn't give him any relief, not until David came. All he could offer was the assurance that their friend was on his way, and soon it would all be better. His words had little effect, Dean gripped a handful of sheet in one hand, twisting and releasing the fabric over and over. He closed his eyes, but all he saw were Iris's angry, haunted eyes, accusing and grief-stricken, and filled with rebuke. _He painted his door blue, because it reminded him of the sea_... "Whiskey-" he demanded hoarsely.

"I can't-"

His punctured throat throbbed relentlessly with his rapid heartbeat. He couldn't shake the feeling of Johan's cold breath, as his teeth broke through his skin. "Now!" he gritted, fending off hot tears.

But Sam was forced to deny him. "No, Dean, " he winced, "Doc's orders."

Dean offered a quiet string of profanity, and Sam left to get some wet towels. Dean reached blindly for the bottle that should have been on the nightstand, but Sam had expected that. When it eluded him, he dropped his head wearily to the pillow in defeat. The memories flooded back, of being tied and helpless, of fear; the heat of glowing metal, the sound and smell of his own skin burning. And at the centre of it, Iris's piercing words, as she cried over her dead brother. A good man, it turned out; one that he himself had killed with unforgivable brutality. -_as bad as any one of them..._

When Sam returned, he could see the fresh trail of moisture that led away from his eyes. He knew Dean could handle pain; he'd seen him deal with it stoically on countless occasions, and he'd marvelled at his ability to take abuse. But it was different this time. He was so reduced; too weak to play the role he'd assigned himself. He had nothing left to fuel the facade.

Sam wiped away his own impotent tears as he raged inside, vowing rid the world of the lot of them, with a bloody vengeance the likes of which they'd never see before. He sat down, and carefully began stripping Dean of his soiled and bloody clothing. Dean hardly noticed, and Sam was able to get him tidied up with minimum embarrassment. Sam could now see the full extent of the burns. Nasty, narrow strips, blistered and scarlet, branded both arms, and another above his navel. They were dirt-encrusted from his crawl across the mill floor. "Dean, I have to clean these, or they'll infect, " he warned softly. When he received no answer, he began to dab the soil and sweat and blood from his skin. He was as gentle as he could be, but it had to be done.

He couldn't stop it, The ordeal had taken a harsh toll. Dean covered his eyes, and wept in silence. The only way Sam even knew was by the hitch in his breathing and the lines of steady tears that escaped from beneath his hand. As Sam cleaned him up, he wondered what they'd done to him to cause the wounds. The why had been answered, and it was unsettling enough. Vampires were dangerous in nature; they were greedy, self-serving and amoral; the heat of the devil ran in their veins and they denied themselves nothing. But this was an entirely new facet, and it was as ugly as it could get. And they'd lured him in a careful and deliberate way to do it. There was more to that, he was sure. To see his iron-willed brother reduced to tears, trembling from this unpeakable horror, was more than he could bear. He clamped his jaw and tried to tune out his sounds of protest as he gently washed Dean's raw and damaged skin. When he was done, he stepped away, and let him come to grips with it in privacy. But he sat close by, enough to be a comfort, but far enough away that he didn't intrude.

After a while Dean was quiet. Sam listened to him settle. He crept forward and sat watching, as Dean's chest rose and fell in shallow, fitful sleep. He shivered and moaned, mouthing words, frowning. Sam soothed his clammy brow, talking to him gently until he fell silent, only to have to do so again, and again. And he wondered at the words he could make out. _I'm sorry,_ And the phrase _I didn't know_, repeated until the words became mere whispered sounds. There was more affecting Dean than what he could see. Sam sat, feeling useless and hollow, waiting anxiously for word from David. He chewed his thumbnails to the quick, worrying. Dean had been gone for nearly three days; bound, starved, and burned. They'd taken a nearly lethal amount of blood... Why was he so distraught now that he would be _apologizing?_ What the hell had happened to him while he was in their vicious hands?

* * *

He paced for several hours as he anxiously awaited the knock. When it came, he flew to the door at David's voice, and pulled him in. David shot Sam a look of shared grief. He knew exactly how the kid felt, he'd seen it enough times. As he made his way toward Dean, he asked Sam, "How are you holding up?"

Sam shrugged, his mouth a grim line. David nodded knowingly and sat at the bedside, and he began to set up. He hung an IV bag, as he always did, from a standing lamp, and connected it to the arm of the stricken figure on the bed, noting the puffy red wounds. He whistled his dismay, and he turned his attention to his range of checks, frowning at Dean's low blood pressure, and shaking his head when he examined the burns on his arms. Dean startled awake at his touch, groaning and confused. They were appalling, a stark contrast to the tender skin surrounding them. The blistering was evident, but the fact that they were so painful told David that the deeper layers that held the nerves hadn't been significantly damaged. He huffed in relief, thankful that they wouldn't require grafts. He painstakingly cleaned them, and wrapped them loosely in sterile gauze. He turned his attentions to the bites next, putting a few stitches in the worst of them at his throat. Dean stirred again and protested weakly.

"There's a third burn, on his stomach." Sam said wearily.

David nodded and lifted the sheet. Dean seemed to rise to consciousness then, and David spoke to him gently. "Hey there, buddy. It's me, your favourite sawbones." He worked over Dean's abdomen. Dean shuddered and tried to push his hand away. but David efficiently put his emotions aside as he treated the wound, keeping up a quiet conversation to distract his patient from the pain. But when he touched the worst of the blisters, Dean's eyes flew wide and he gasped.

"Freaking hack!" he whispered hoarsely.

David smiled a little at the familiar jibe ."Easy now; gotta fix this up. You can sue me for malpractice later, alright?" David reassured him that they'd be done shortly, as Dean lay rigid; thin-lipped and staring hard at the ceiling.

When he was finished, he spoke to Dean further, carefully probing him about his ordeal. Dean provided a few short answers, until it was clear that he was in too much pain to talk, and David gave him something to to ease it.

"Thanks, Doc.." Dean sighed.

David offered a reassuring squeeze to his arm. The IV bags were doing their part to restore his depleted fluid levels, but he needed rest now. Rest and blessed peace.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

David poured them both a stiff shot. "So what happened here, Sam?" he probed after they had downed it. "He's in pretty rough shape."

Sam sighed with a weary defeat. "I don't know yet. It involves a woman, of course. And the rest; it's just what I told you earlier. We were lured here by someone, and it's obvious now that they knew enough about us, and must have been tailing us for a while. The reasons are still a mystery, but the vampire threat that got him all excited turned out to be real. I found him." He paused for several moments, and David refilled him. "I found him in the middle of a nest of the sonsofbitches, and they'd had him for a few days. They tortured him, David...and I don't know if we're lucky that they did, because ordinarily you don't last beyond one feeding with these damned things. He said that this group fed on blood that was juiced with adrenalin, or whatever your body pumps out when you're in pain. I guess they were using him for that purpose."

David whistled softly. "Poor bastard."

"No shit. He was in a bad way when I got him back here...I didn't know if he was going to die on me, he was so white, his heart rate was like a squirrel's. I drew everything I could from my own arm and stuck it in his. I know you said that was dangerous, but I really thought it was critical." His voice trailed off to a whisper, and he rubbed his eyes. He held out his glass and David once again refreshed their drinks.

"You did good Sam. I think we got him in time."

Sam nodded in silence. David could see that the younger man was tired and distraught. "Listen, you look like hell yourself. Why don't you crash for a while? I'll take first watch."

"Thanks, David, but I just can't, right now. I just don't know what the hell could be coming." He explained the events at the mill, and the strange ally he'd encountered. "I don't know what to make of it. I don't know why he helped us, I don't know who the girl is, but he's connected to her, because he went out to look for her. I heard him out there in the dark, calling her name. Iris. I was busy trying to carry Dean back to the car, so I don't know what happened after that."

"That is pretty damned odd. From what Dean told me in the past, there aren't a whole lot of vampires who have such an altruistic bent."

"Yeah. There was a time I would have said it wasn't possible. But Dean and I came across a group of them, some time ago. This particular bunch was trying hard to keep as human as possible, by feeding on animals instead. It was a bloody eye-opener, to say the least. Dean was pretty screwed up at that time, with Dad having just died, and the accident and all the rest of it. As a matter of fact, it was the first time we met Gordon Walker, and he and Dean hit it off. But once we found out that these vampires were struggling hard to steer away from the evil of their nature, and that they were actually managing to live that ideal, Dean did what he always does, he took up the fight of the underdog. It made a bitter enemy of Walker, as you well know."

David did know. His first encounter with the brothers was the result of Gordon Walker's vendetta. He sighed and swirled the dregs in his glass, remembering. "So where does this go now, Sam?" he asked. "So far we have a girl who was part of the ruse, who is seemingly still human and who knows you somehow. We have a nest of vampires who crave hormone-boosted blood, and a rogue one that helped rescue Dean and is linked to the girl. Do you think he's a threat..? Or that she still is?"

"I just...don't know. When Dean is awake, maybe he can shed some light on it. Whatever happened out there, there's more to it than the effects you and I saw on him. He was...crying about something, when he was out of it; saying he was sorry, something about not knowing. After everything they did to him, David, he should have been pissed, vowing to get back at them, when he was able... but he wasn't."

David glanced at Dean sadly, watching him breathe quietly in drugged sleep. It was puzzling, and he hoped Dean could tell them what it was about, for his own sake. Trauma was best dealt with head-on, and he knew that Dean was a tightly corked bottle at the best of times. And he'd really like to know that this was over...he was an ardent believer in the causes the Winchesters took up, but he didn't necessarily want to take them on personally. He had no idea how to manage himself in a fight situation; he was more accustomed to patching the two of them back up in the aftermath. "But you're sure the other ones are dead now?"

Sam shrugged, frowning. "Between the red-haired vampire and me, we did a lot of damage. I know at least two of them were run through, and I did my best to spear the one that was on Dean. Powerful sonofabitch, that one. I left him lying on the ground with a stake in his chest. He looked pretty damned dead. But I couldn't stick around to really make sure, with Dean nearly bled-out. I should have cut their damned heads off, but there was no time." He snorted at that. "He'll give me shit for that, of course. He'll say I should have finished the job, that it was more important than looking after him."

David smiled a little at that. He stretched and got up, parting the curtains to peer out into the darkness. It was silent and still in the parking lot. "Well, I'm sure as hell not going to want to sleep now. But you really need to recharge, Sam. You've been through the wringer yourself. He's going to be ok, I promise. And I don't want to catch it in the neck from him when he see's the state you're in. You know how he is."

Relieved, Sam offered a tired smile. "Yeah, I know. And thanks, David, as always. Don't know where we'd be without you."

"Pushing up daisies, that's where. Now shut up and sleep."

* * *

With Dean in David's capable and caring hands, Sam figured it was safe enough to have a short nap. He was dead on his feet, and stiff and aching from the bruises he'd gained in the melee. He crawled across the other bed, and sprawled on his stomach. His mind was still whirling, but he was out in minutes, too tired to resist.

David watched his patient as he mumbled and frowned in his sleep. _Let it go, buddy..._ he thought. But he knew the make-up of Dean Winchester well enough to know that he never let anything go. David hadn't seen him smile in a very long time, and it hurt to watch the brothers constantly beaten by fate, or destiny, or their own misfortunes and choices. He checked the level of the IV and listened to his heart. Big heart. It'd kill him one day.

He settled back in his chair and picked up his book, leafing through with little interest. He picked up where he left off and tried to immerse himself in the story, but after several readings of the same damned line, he discarded it, sitting in the quiet, listening to a lone katydid that chirped intermittently from some corner of the room where it had gotten trapped. He closed his eyes.

* * *

The kick at the door shattered the peace. David jolted out of his reverie in a panic as the door flew inward with a violence, and a strange figure stepped through.

Sam was instantly on his feet but the stranger was faster. He grabbed the young man by the throat and forced him against the wall, pointing at the doctor where he stood. "Stay there or die!" he growled.

David froze and stared wild-eyed to Sam, who struggled in the grip of a tall, red-haired assailant. The man barked an order. "Be still! I didn't come to harm you!" He released his grip slightly, and Sam stopped struggling for the moment. He recognized him then.

"You're the one from the mill!"

"Yes." He let go then. His entrance was purposely dramatic. He had no time and needed to impress upon them that he would brook no argument and could harm them if it became necessary. His point was well taken.

Sam shrugged his hand away angrily and backed away, tense and wary. "What do you want?"

Paul glanced at the open door. " I need you. She's missing, I can't find her. Daylight is coming, I won't be able to search for her!"

The tension in the room was thick. David stared at the newcomer. His eyes were strange; red-rimmed, and reflecting an unusual light. He was obviously very strong, more so than his lean frame would suggest. He spoke in a clipped tone, with a cadence that suggested some Irish heritage, or something close to that. And the hair; flaming red, wavy and loose. The doc had never seen a vampire, but the brothers had told him about them. If he wasn't mute with terror, he might have been fascinated.

"Who the hell are you talking about?!" Sam demanded. "The girl that led him here?"

"Yes! Iris, She is in peril! Johan lives, you failed to kill him! He has her somewhere, I know it!"

Sam's anger peaked at that. "I don't give a shit about her! She did this to my brother, she's the reason he's half dead on that bed! If you think I'm going to leave him to help that bitch you're nuts!"

Paul's face transformed. He bared his teeth and hissed at Sam, advancing on him with a cocked fist. "You owe me! _He_ owes me, and he owes her! You will help me, or you'll all die here!"

Sam had nothing within reach that could be a threat to Paul. The vampire out-classed him in strength, and had all the advantage. His own life was threatened, but both Dean and David were in equal peril. "Dean owes her? For what?! They nearly killed him, and she set it up! Maybe I owe you for not killing my brother, but why should I help her? If she's in harm's way now, she's getting what she deserves!"

Both heads turned toward the voice that answered. Dean had awakened at the shouting, and struggled to pull himself up. Too weak to do so, David came forward and helped him. "Sam!" he growled. "Listen to me. He's right. I do owe her. You don't know the story yet." He turned to Paul. "I'll help you, just give a few minutes!"

Paul snorted in disbelief. "You?! You can't even stand, you're useless to me! I need them!" He pointed to the others, and David's mouth turned to cotton as he realized that the vampire was including him as well.

"No!" Dean rasped, pulling himself to the edge of the bed. "I'm the one who brought this on, I'll be the one to fix it." He panted, as darkness swirled in the periphery of his vision and the hiss in his ears grew to a roar.

Paul moved so fast that he was a blur. He shoved Dean back down, flattening him with one hand against the bed, and the hunter was helpless to resist. He turned and growled to Sam. "Come with me, or I'll kill him in his bed-"

Dean blinked hard, trying to stave off his faint. He knew Paul meant it, he knew his desperation. He stopped Sam's lunge cold with a sharp word. "Don't!" he barked. "Everybody just stay still for a minute!" When he'd caught his breath, he added. "Let go of me, you sonofabitch! Let me talk!"

Paul did so with a scowl.

"Sam-" Dean began wearily, "He's right, I owe Iris more than you know. Her brother Conrad was part of Lenore's group. He was one of them, trying to exist without killing, remember? Well, I'm the one who murdered him, Sam. With the saw, that night. I killed Iris's brother."

Sam's eyes widened. "So she came at you for payback..?"

"Yeah. And there's more, Sam. Lenore and the rest of them are dead. Hunters followed after us and wiped them out. Paul here was Conrad's friend. He escaped and joined up with this nest, led by the one they call Johan. He's the addict, Sam, he's the bloodsucker that tortures for the juiced blood. If he has Iris, then he'll do it to her."

Sam shook his head. "So what? She nearly killed you, Dean! She brought this on you!"

"I deserved it!" Dean said, growing hoarse with weakness and emotion. "I took everything she loved away from her, I left her with nothing but ashes and memories. I killed a decent man, vampire or not; who deserved better. She had a right to see me suffer, but in the end, she couldn't do it. She refused when Johan tried to force her to burn me. She threw away the knife and ran. And Paul cut me loose, just as you got there, Sam. He freed me and took them all on." He was growing too weak to continue. And he knew Paul was right. "Sam, the last thing I want to do is put you in the firing line, but I can't do it myself. You have to go after her. You have to help me...help me make it right."

Sam understood then. He had wondered what could be preying on Dean's mind while he lay unconscious, and now he knew. He looked at him, exasperated. "I can't leave you alone here-"

"I'm safe here." he whispered, near exhaustion. "And I'm just dead weight right now. Go find her Sam. For me..."

Sam reluctantly agreed. "But he stays here," he said, indicating David.

Paul answered. "No. I need both of you to cover ground. He will not be in danger, they will go underground soon. I need day-walkers."

Dean turned to David. "This is your call, David. If you want to go, just set me up however you need."

David didn't want to go. But he glanced at the red-headed vampire, and he knew that despite Dean's words, he did not have the luxury of choosing. He nodded then. He'd once asked to accompany the brothers on a hunt, a long time ago. They'd talked him out of it. Well, it looked like he would get his wish, just as that old adage warned.

* * *

The trio left just before dawn. Dean was left behind in the silence, helpless and consumed with worry. He'd grasped weakly at Paul's sleeve as he passed. "You bring them back safe, you sonofabitch, or I swear to god I'll hunt you down and skin you alive-" he'd warned in a whisper. Paul smiled slightly at the absurdity of the threat, but he solemnly agreed.

Dean lifted his hand with effort. He rubbed his forehead, and bleary eyes._ God,_ he hated this. He'd just sent them out into who-knows what danger. He should be there with them, protecting them. But he knew that if the circumstances demanded his action, he would rise to meet the challenge, and promptly collapse in a heap onto the floor. The damned bloodsucker had summed his status up succinctly; he was useless. He checked the alarm clock that sat on the night table. It was pushing five in the morning. Paul was right, his window of opportunity was closing fast, and he really would have to rely on Sam and David to be his eyes, ears and limbs. Dean wished he knew more about the vampire Johan. It would have made things simpler...knowing his history, his methods, his choices. He lay still for some time, miserably aware of his wounds, trying to master the pain. David's ministrations had helped, but it still hurt like a bitch. But pain was an old acquaintance; it was weakness that he couldn't come to grips with. He knew enough about the chemistry of life to realize that he was now dangerously anemic, and without red blood cells to carry oxygen, he tired at the slightest motion, and he was severely limited. David had explained it, several times. The volume of his circulatory system could be corrected quickly. But his red cell count, the one that fed his starving body the oxygen it needed, would stay low for much longer. He would be weaker than a kitten for far too long.

He swore. _No. No, screw that_. He might not be able to stand at the moment, but he could do other things. Like drive. The situation rolled through his mind, like a rogue wave. Sam...Paul...the girl Iris. He turned to his tether, the IV line, and cursed under his breath. The day was dawning, probably less than an hour. Any remaining vampires would be underground soon. It was good for Sam and David, but it eliminated a huge source of info. Paul would need them to be brilliant in deducing the location of Johan. But Johan was far from stupid; he was clever, he was apparently very old. He had experience that they could only begin to dream of. And if Sam and David found his nest, what then? Sam knew what to expect, but Dean was always there as back-up, and David was a wide-eyed neophyte. He felt a panic rise, and his rapid breathing made his wounded midriff burn so sharply he felt the rise of bile in his throat. _Calm down, idiot!_ he thought angrily._ This isn't helping_.

He took a few measured breaths, and reminded himself of what he knew to be true. Vampires, no matter how old or wily, still had to sleep like the dead during daylight hours. Those two wouldn't be in danger as long as it was light. Unless, of course, they had guards... Bloodsuckers were crafty, they did that sometimes. Human security for when they were most vulnerable, people without conscience who engaged in such dangerous liasons for their own benefit, for excitement, or who knows what sick reason. "F~ck!" He roared it out loud, but it was a mere croak. His eyes pricked with the threat of tears of bitter frustration. He wished the damned IV bag was filled with 180 proof, at least then he wouldn't be worried about anything.

* * *

David still had a dry mouth. He and Sam followed Paul's car in David's rental. Sam had claimed the wheel and David had no objection. "What do you think we'll...I mean, where will we...this Paul guy, or thing, or...ah shit! Christ, Sam; what the hell's expected of us here?"

If it hadn't been so serious, Sam might have smirked. But he didn't. "David, you know as much as I do right now. Bottom line is we have to find this girl. Frankly, I don't give a damn if she's breathing, but it means something to Dean. I know this is a whole new world for you, but relax, ok? I won't let anything happen to you, I promise. And as much as I say that because we owe you and you're a good friend, it's mostly because Dean would kick my ass to hell and back if a hair on your head was harmed."

David looked down and smiled. "Ok. So...Paul-"

"Paul is a strange creature.." Sam murmured. "He was obviously a devoted friend to this Conrad, and he's frantic to keep Conrad's sister safe. I don't know...maybe there's more to it."

"A strange vampire." David snorted.

Sam had nothing to add to that. They followed the taillights of Paul's car ahead, as it sped toward the mill.

Thinking out loud, Sam mused, "I guess he's getting to his safe zone. I can see the pink on the horizon, his skin must be starting to burn.."

David looked to him in shocked alarm. "Are you serious? You mean it's just like-"

"Just like in the movies, yeah. They burn at the slightest UV. And they exhaust at the end of each night, since they don't exactly have the lifeforce of the regular guy. If he doesn't get to his shelter he'll be too weak to shield himself, and the sun will crisp him."

David's eyes remained wide. His empathy kicked in. "Jesus, the poor bastards. I wonder if I could-"

Sam cut him off. "David, drop it. This one is an extreme anomaly. They're evil. You do not want to cure their ills, trust me."

David nodded. _Right...vampires_...It was so absurd that for a moment he almost laughed. But he remembered what he'd experienced through the brothers, and he trusted their insight. The humour evaporated.

* * *

They pulled in and parked. Paul was already out of his car and huddling under his heavy oilskin coat. Sam and David got out and joined him. David was again struck by the pathos of this man, this creature, who struggled to save a girl even as the sun began to bubble his deathly white skin.

Sam asked the obvious question. "So now what?"

Paul drew his collar tightly around his throat. He was shaking, his voice husky. "I have to leave you now. I can't stay here any longer. Pay attention; I'll tell you all I know."

They listened as he spoke tersely. "He is more than your match, certainly... he's more than mine. I've known him for some time but I still know nothing, you understand? One like him...so old, he's seen many, many things, learned tricks that he will divulge to no one, not even his own kind. Johan comes from an old world, he feels most at ease if he is near what he knows; stone and water. The mill was perfect, but it is compromised now and he won't return. You need to search for a place with these things, but he's not stupid either and he will not jeopardize his safety for these comforts." As the two absorbed his instruction, Paul leaned against the cool damp of the stone wall. Sam noticed his struggle. The vampire was sweating, pulling at the limits of his coat to cover him, and appeared on the verge of collapse.

"You ok...?" he asked doubtfully.

Paul shook his head. "I had no time-" he mumbled.

"For what?"

Paul took a shaky breath. "To feed. I am starving. It can't...I have to-" He staggered then, and reached out to steady himself. His hand found David's chest and he clutched at the doctor's shirt-front. The moment he felt the warm beat of the doc's strong heart beneath his fingers, he lost the tight grip he kept on himself. He moaned a strangled sound and lunged, grasping David's wrist with shocking speed and biting down on it. David yelped, and fell backward, with Paul on top of him. He struggled beneath the vampire, wide-eyed in sudden terror at the pain and visceral, violating sensation of feeding. It was mere seconds, but it seemed like eternity before he felt the heavy weight tear away from him. He scrambled away as Sam flattened Paul to the spongy, moss covered soil.

"Filthy sonofabitch!" Sam growled as he sweated to pin him.

Paul squirmed and kicked, uttering gutteral sounds like a trapped animal as Sam struck him repeatedly until he was stilled. When he stopped moving, and his hideously distorted teeth and eyes returned to something close to normal, Sam dared to turn toward David. "David! You ok?!"

David was clutching his wrist. He was panting, but he crept forward. "I...I guess. He bit me; he was sucking at it!"

"Yeah, they do that." Sam growled. He turned his attention back to Paul. He held him hard against the ground, and was ready to cut his damned head off right there and then, but he stopped. He was astounded to see that the vampire was weeping. Paul lay still under Sam's hold, heaving with deep, wrenching sobs.

"I'm sorry-" he whispered brokenly. "I'm sorry.." He was silent for a time, still crying. Sam felt no fight left in him, and he released him warily, standing over him.

"What the hell was that?!" he demanded, still huffing with the exertion. David was still wide-eyed, but his need to know more narrowly won over his fear, and he glanced at Sam, and crouched beside them, just out of reach.

Paul rubbed his pale eyelashes roughly, wiping at the red-tinged tears, struggling to regain his composure. His expression was so raw with self-loathing that it pained them to witness it, despite the circumstance. Finally, when he could speak, he explained. "I tried to go with out...I had to find her. I couldn't take the time." He sat up slowly, and David saw a trail of red, his own blood, smeared on the vampire's pale, lightly bristled chin.

David knelt, still clutching his wrist to himself tightly. He watched intently, and listened, fearful, but unable to contain his curiosity. He glanced at Sam's taut, stony face. The young hunter was clearly in the position of power, and the vampire had pulled into himself, sitting with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, and rocking with agitation. He looked back to the creature, once a man, who sat shivering on the ground in front of him. Doctor Bowman couldn't turn it off...his hippocratic oath was deeply ingrained, and he knew the symptoms of hunger, of physical distress, of pain. It beat down his fear and anger, and he spoke to Paul now as if he were a volatile but suffering patient.

"Why did you do that?" he asked quietly.

Paul looked away. "I have to feed. Every night I have to feed. It's what I am. I try to find the worst of them, the violent ones, those with bad intent, rapists, muggers, killers...the worst of the living. Sometimes I find nothing, and I feed on rats, or creatures that live in the alleys or dark places...ugly things. I have to do this every night, or the need wins out, and I become an unstoppable, evil thing..." He would have said more but Sam interrupted.

"You are evil, you lying freak! You brought us here for what? Your midnight snack?! You never needed our help, you just needed our blood!"

Paul covered his eyes and shook his head. His strength, his aura of other-worldly power had abandoned him completely now. He was no longer the commanding being he had been, he was crumpled and beaten, a hollow, suffering shadow, growing frail and more helpless as the sun grew stronger. He shook his head in tearful denial, dropping his head to his knees, and covering it with his arms as David watched him.

"Sam, don't." he said softly.

Sam turned to him, still furious. "David; you don't get it, he was only-"

David stood up. "No. No, Sam. I know how this looks...and I know you and Dean are experts in dealing with this shit. But you have to trust my instincts too-"

Sam could see the intensity in his friend's face. David had just had ten years scared off of his life, but he still had empathy. He reluctantly held his tongue, but kept his hand ready.

David stepped close to Paul now, and sat. He tucked his bloodied wrist into his coat for safety. "Go on."

Paul cleared his throat and continued miserably. "I didn't bring you here to feed. I thought I could miss it, this once. I thought... I thought I was stronger." He sighed with a palpable misery. "I'm sorry I attacked you...I just couldn't go any longer. I had to find her, my Iris. I had to make her safe. I spent all night...but it was wasted. I know what will happen...it probably already did. She'll be dead, he will have done things... She'll have suffered so, and it's my fault. I spent all night looking for them, everything I could think of, I ran until I couldn't breath any more." He stopped to get a grip again. ".Johan is brilliant, but he's cold. I thought he was a shining hero at first, for his quest. We all did. After the way Conrad died at the hands of hunters, I thought he was right, and it was all justified. He said that he would rid this place of them, and we would all go on to be champions of good, taking the worst of humanity, like the sword of God Himself."

It shocked Sam to hear a vampire talk in such religious terms. God?! These cursed things still held this concept in high regard?

Paul continued, his voice growing thin. "When they took Lenore; her ideals, her refuge...it died with her. Most of them succumbed to their nature after that. It is so terribly hard to struggle against the need. A few of us moved on. And then we found Johan, and we believed in him. They still do, or did. But I saw through it. Just another self-serving, maniacal despot. His lord was nothing but his addiction, the so called "Quest" was a lie. He was a pied piper, a svengali...he mesmerized those who were lost. We thought we could live with ourselves, we could stop hating our nature, under his lead. And I told her...I told Iris."

David had forgotten his fear. He hovered close to Paul, absorbing his words, assessing his condition. Even Sam had dropped his guard slightly.

In the shadows of the mill, the dawn light was making pale inroads. It cast shadows from the bodies still sprawled within the confines of the walls. They were beginning to steam; wisps of smoke rising and curling from where the sun touched the dead flesh. The stink of it began to grow. Paul pulled his heavy hood tightly around himself and shuddered. "Please..." he whispered. "Find her. Find Iris. Keep her from dying in his brutal hands. I promised him. I promised Conrad I would protect her, even if I couldn't have her."

David sat back. He glanced at Sam, who shared his expression. _Ah hah._ There it was...the meat of it. Paul was in love with his best friend's sister. And his friend was gone. The vampire was a conficted mess of love and guilt and self hatred and honour. David turned back to him. "Tell us anything else we might need now, Paul. Quickly."

Paul raised his red rimmed eyes at them. "You..you'll help me? Still?"

Again David looked toward Sam. Sam cursed under his breath and sighed. "I'll do it for my brother. He bought into your sob-story. For Dean, not you. And sure as hell not for her."

Paul smiled a little. Brothers...it was a strange bond. But he was grateful. The UV was piercing the tight weave of his cloak, he was beginning to burn in earnest. He squirmed against the pain of it, and huddled tighter, and he thought of all detail he could that might be significant. He had to speak quickly. "I think...if he had to, Johan would find refuge wherever he could. Stone is meaningful to him, but water more-so. He grew up on the sea...he claims he can't rest unless he is near water. Keep that in mind. I wish to god that I could fly; I could see the places below, and know his mind. I could see where he would choose..."

Sam snapped up. "I can do that, with my computer, I can see it online!"

Paul didn't understand, but he knew there were ways, machines nowadays that facilitated any whim. Smoke was beginning to rise from his own clothing as the bodies of his dead and exposed compatriots crisped and crackled around them. "I'm burning...I have to go underground. Look then. A place of water, of solitude. And most important, of quiet, or of constant noise, either would suit him. He draws screams from his victims, he will want to hide this. Please-" he croaked as he rose. "Find her. I saved your brother...I saw her resist, I saw her refuse to hurt him when Johan insisted. She is worthy of your efforts. I...I beg you!" He turned then and fled, disappearing beneath the heavy cellar door. The echo of it's closure reverberated within the stone ruin. Sam and David simultaneously turned to each other. David, who had been attacked and weakened by this dubious ally. Sam, who's brother had suffered and nearly died at their hands. They had the same unspoken question. Sam was the first. He nodded resolutely. "You heard him, buddy. Let's go find Iris."

David nodded. He rose, and the two stepped through the stone doorway and into the rosy light of the coming day.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

He startled awake. "Sam..?"

He was greeted by silence. Still panting with the jolt into the present, he eased himself back down against the sheets and groaned._ It'll fade...please fade, for christ's sake... _He shut his eyes tight, and made a conscious effort to relax the muscles of his abdomen, which flamed with a searing intensity from the abrupt movement. The pain hung on for endless minutes, and he had to measure his breathing to keep from losing the soup David and Sam had made him eat before they left. Beads of chilly sweat trickled into his hair and under his neck, he felt suffocated by his own weakness. _Easy. In...out... _he coached himself, struggling to keep it down. It was a dicey few moments but he finally bested it. He took a careful breath and tried to relax.

The nightmare that had vexed him before he was propelled so sharply into wakefulness still lingered. More a memory than a dream, it was no less bitter to relive, and he tried to force the emotions away, but they persisted. Panic, mainly...as the images and sensations of his horrific captivity clung stubbornly to his mind. He groaned again, and brushed his damp hair with a shaky hand, and stared at the benign and comforting whiteness of the ceiling. He couldn't shake the image of the damned heated blade, and the agony; the fearful anticipation of it that had made him scream and strain against the ropes that held him down. And Johan's glassy-eyed and noisy feeding. He shuddered, and fumbled for his lifeline, the cell phone under his pillow, still safe beside his gun. He pressed the button with his sweaty hand, and the time shone brightly. It was past seven, and it flashed a message. He'd been out for hours, since they'd left. It annoyed and shamed him when he saw that he'd missed their call. Just missed it, actually. He realized it was what had snapped him awake.

It took him several tries to get it right, but he got through, and the sound of Sam's voice was a welcome relief. Sam was terse, concerned that he hadn't answered earlier, and he said so. "_I let it ring forever! Are you ok? Damn it Dean, I didn't know what the hell to think!"_

His hackles rose at the tone. "Well, sue me! Shit, Sam; I'm not exactly myself at the moment." he protested. "And you knew David shot me up with something, I'm amazed I can even talk straight now."

Sam realized he was being hard on him, even if it was out of worry. He softened. "_Yeah, I get that. It's ok, I was just worried, that's all." _He was glad to hear him, but the thready timbre of Dean's voice alarmed him.

Dean ignored his mothering tone and continued. "So what's going on? You find anything yet?"

There was a heavy sigh on the other end. "_No. We dropped Paul at the mill...he was pretty spent. We figured something out from the way he was talking about the girl. It's more than just his loyalty to Conrad. I think he's carrying a major torch for her."_

"Huh. That makes sense. I figured there was something else going on here. How's David, is he freaking out about any of this? It's a bit out of his comfort zone."

Sam paused. _"Uh...no, he's ok. Just doing his Doc thing big time; now he's fretting over sick vamps.. He had a little experience with Paul before he went underground, a bit of a lesson first hand in what they're really about."_

Dean snapped to full attention. "What do you mean? Is he ok?!"

_"Yeah. Paul attacked him, chomped on his wrist. He hadn't fed last night, he was desperate, and...well, he lost it."_

That revelation put some fire back in Dean's tone. "Wtf! Put him on!"

David took the phone._ "Dean, are you alright? What's the level on your IV bags? Are you drinking the water I left? What about pain-?"_

"Shut up, David! What the hell happened with Paul?!"

_"Oh...well, it was like Sam said. He was apparently starving after spending the night searching for the girl. He was on the verge of collapse, and he...well, he grabbed my arm and bit in. He sucked out a pint or two before Sam got him off me; christ they're efficient! It was only for a few seconds_."

"Did he do any damage, David?! Do you need to come back here?"

"_No, I think it's fine. I mean assuming he has no social diseases.. But he's still a wreck, as far as I could tell. He...well, I was a little shell-shocked, maybe Sam should tell it."_

Sam took over and described the events of the early morning. Dean listened intently, and when the tale was finished, he wasn't sure how he felt about it all. "Huh. So Paul has a thing for Iris...it figures.. That explains why he...why he was..."

The focus he aimed on their conversation was taxing, especially after his abrupt awakening, He stopped mid-sentence, feeling strange. His fingertips tingled, his face prickled with cold sweat. His hand was growing numb. He took a trembling breath. "Listen, maybe you two should come back here, to coordinate. We can...uh...we can talk some of this crap through, and..." He trailed off and dropped his arm, the strength draining from him with alarming speed. For a moment he saw flashes of light, squiggles worming their way in front of his view. It was all he could do to keep a grip on the phone as a blackness crept into the periphery of his sight. He swore softly and shut his eyes until the hiss faded enough for him to hear clearly again.

_"Dean? You ok? Dean!"_

"..yeah." he answered unconvincingly. "but maybe you ought to get back here. Just to try to figure out where they might be holed up. The more heads together the better, right..? Just for a little while..."

Sam knew that Dean would never ask for help, no matter how necessary. He'd long ago learned to decipher the cues, and he heard it in the weak voice at the other end now. Dean was not at all well, and it scared him. He caught David's eye as he spoke. _"Sure, Dean; we'll head back. We could use another perspective, I think we're against the clock here in a few ways."_

When he'd hung up, David asked the obvious. "Is he ok? Does he need attention? Aw dammit, I should have stayed with him, I knew it.!"

Sam sighed. "I don't know. He sounds like shit. He was shaky, drifting as we spoke, and I'd feel a hell of a lot better if we went back for a bit. I'm running out of juice on the computer anyway, I should get it charging, we're going to need it."

They headed back toward the motel, both consumed by their worries.

* * *

Dean had his own worries to contend with. When his call was over, he lay back again, fully awake now, and miserably aware of just how angry fresh burns were made by his unheeding movement. He'd inadvertantly brushed his arms several times against the bed edge and could feel the loose gauze sticking to the wounds, and he lay, eyes watering, with his wrists awkwardly turned upward to keep from doing so again. He cursed quietly, over and over, wanting to pluck away the coverings, but he wisely thought to leave it to David. He felt pinned, trapped, and it brought the ugly imagery of his captivity sharply to mind. He tried to picture calming images, but he had little reference for such things, and his mind always returned to the darkness of the mill, and his ordeal.

And Iris.

He felt a sharp pang of guilt. Yeah, she'd brought this on him, but he'd done worse to her. He thought about her description of her brother, and the look on her face as she said it. Conrad's state of being had not been his choice, but he did his best with it, it seemed. And it made no difference to her; she loved him...he was her big brother, always would be. And from what she'd said, they still had some good moments. It might have even worked with Lenore shepherding them. But then along came _Righteous Dean Winchester _to punish him for what he was. He shut his eyes and sighed, hating what he'd done. But it couldn't be remedied now.

And then there was the enigmatic Paul. Powerful, harsh at times, but strangely moral, and in love with his dead friend's sister; a damaged and lonely girl he could never have. Like Conrad, attacked by some bloodsucker, but spared and sentenced by his maker to walk in darkness and lust for blood for eternity. He could have lived like the rest of his kind, killing without conscience, revelling in the power of the evil they'd inherited. Instead, he battled nightly with his urges, his conscience; choosing instead to use his curse like a weapon for the greater good. A self-loathing sinner who struggled in self-imposed misery to soothe his tortured soul. Dean flinched at the parallels to his own life. And he'd killed dozens of the damned things...he wondered now how many really deserved the damnation he sent them to.

_..Ugh._ Nothing was ever this complicated when his dad was around. He didn't have to question back then, it was all so blissfully black and white.

* * *

Iris kept running, after her collision with Sam. She ran as if she could flee from the horror, leave it all behind her; Conrad, the vampires, and _him_. If it were only the ghosts of her past chasing her, she might have made it to greener pastures eventually. But she'd started something that now had the momentum of a landslide, and she would be buried beneath it along with her intentions. She stumbled and tripped, blinded by tears and terror, through the coarse and weedy field. The gravel road was in her sight, and scratched bloody, she picked herself up yet again and lunged toward the dim glow of the distant street-lights. She almost made it to the guardrail. But swift and strong hands pulled her back down as she moved to step over the cables. She rolled back down into the ditch, winded, seeing stars as her back hit the ground with a bruising thump. She blinked for a moment, chasing the birds away. When clarity returned, she found herself eye to eye with a far from genteel Johan.

He lifted her by her shoulders and thumped her hard again against the ground. She stared at him in terror.

"You run from me now, Iris?" he snarled. "After all I've orchestrated for you, for your brother; you reject my efforts?!"

She was speechless with fear. When she found her voice, it was a dry whisper. "It was wrong. it was sick! He was sorry, I..I believed him-"

Johan spat on the ground beside her. "And?! So he repented, what of it?! You stupid, cow-eyed bitch! Did it bring him back, your precious saint of a brother? I did this for you, Iris! I helped you set this trap. You think you can decide now to abandon this? To discard me?!" He grew angrier with each clipped syllable, and his cold, firm hand tightened on her until she felt his nails tear her clothing and bite into her skin. She wept and begged him to stop as he lifted her again and pounded her viciously against the ground. "Ungrateful whore!" he hissed. "You're weak and useless! You and God can forgive him all you want, it means nothing to me! I can't believe I thought you might make a worthy companion, but you are nothing!" He hauled back and struck her hard across the jaw. She sagged then, her eyes rolling up. He swore something in a gutteral, furious voice, reverting to a dialect that came to him when he was most agitated. Iris heard nothing, and he hauled her ragdoll form over his shoulder, like a butcher with a fresh and pliant side of meat, and he set out toward the place where he'd hidden his car. The night was not yet over. He'd had a taste of what he craved, and a taste of pain and bitter betrayal as well, thanks to her, and Paul and the hunters. Well, he would take what he'd worked hard to cultivate this night, one way or another.

* * *

Sam and David pulled up in front of their unit. As Sam stepped out, he glanced around warily. It was a dull day, rain piddled off and on since early morning. The room beside theirs was still empty, as was the next one. Several doors down, there was a car parked, it seemed there was an occupant, but as no light shone through the tightly pulled blind, They were probably still sleeping. Sam's experienced eyes saw nothing amiss. With Dean so vulnerable, he hated more than anything that he was forced to leave him alone right now. His brother was in bad shape, he could never defend himself against a threat, and Sam knew that half the time the greater threat was Dean himself. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd begged Dean to stay in his bed to heal up from some trauma only to find him back on the doorstep, and sagging against the jamb with a defiant grin. Left to his own devices, god knows what he was liable to do. But Paul was pretty persuasive, they didn't have much choice, and Dean was even more insistent.. He just hoped it was worth it.

He entered quietly, but saw that Dean wasn't sleeping, he was alert. David followed, and he immediately became Dr. Bowman, fussing over his patient until Dean shoved his hand away with irritation.

"David, get the hell away from me!" He grabbed the doc's wrist and turned it to reveal the punctures, examining them with a deep frown, "Don't you need to put something on this?"

David was used to this. "Don't use me to change the subject! I asked you if you were feeling any dizziness, weakness or shortness of breath!"

Dean sighed angrily. "Well yeah! How the hell am I supposed to feel? Look, if you really want to do something helpful you can get that bottle of bourbon out of my stuff. Otherwise sit down and chill for a minute." He shut his eyes, tired by his outburst. He turned toward Sam. "So where are we on this right now?"

Sam rubbed his forehead wearily. "Nowhere so far. I need to check online for some aerials of this place. Paul said Johan prefered locations with water and stone, or at least old buildings. I already went all over the place when you went missing, and there was nothing like the mill anywhere else. Unless he holes up in some barn or something.."

"Or bucks the trend and finds himself a quiet room in a completely opposite locale." David added. The brothers turned to him then.

"But Paul said he had requirements-" Sam reminded.

"Not exactly. He said Johan had preferences. I mean, he could move out of his comfort zone if he were forced to, right? He just needs darkness and security, mostly."

He was thinking like a hunter. Dean swore. "Well that could put the sonofabitch just about anywhere now! And we're back at square one."

That sobering thought left the room in quiet for a few moments. Finally, Sam shrugged. "Well, I'm going to look up google Earth anyway. Maybe there are some places around here that fit enough to go check out. I don't know what else to do."

He did so, and while he was busy with that, Dean had David help him get up and use the bathroom. David grunted with his weight as Dean leaned heavily on him for the short few feet. "Seriously, Dean; how do you feel?" he asked quietly.

Dean answered truthfully. "Like pasty crap, David. I'm seeing stars even now. Christ, I couldn't protect either one of you from a shadow right now; how long am I going to be this freaking useless?"

David smiled a little at Dean's chosen words. The elder Winchester's focus was, as always, how his state of health would affect everyone else. He never gave any weight to the impact of these things on himself. He got him back in bed, re-hung his IV, and tried to settle him. "Relax, buddy. It won't be too long. And quit worrying, Sam and I will find Iris and we'll all put some serious miles between us and this Johan bastard. But we can't concentrate on that if we're worrying that you're going to do something stupid, alright? Yeah, Sam told me about all the times you skipped out of care when you were in no shape to do so. I saw it myself, remember? So do us all a favour and stay where you are this time. We can't help that girl if we're having to rescue you from yourself."

Dean's pale cheeks reddened slightly with shame. He knew David was right. And he hated it. He nodded angrily.

* * *

Sam had filled a page with notes and directions. He took it to Dean, to include him. "These are all the places around here that sort of fit Paul's description that we haven't checked yet. It ought to keep us busy for a while, they're pretty scattered. What do you think?"

Dean shrugged angrily. "Sure. Whatever. Just stay in touch, alright? And don't freak out if I don't answer right away. I'll probably fall asleep at some point. Not like there's anything else to do."

Sam could feel Dean's palpable frustration like an angry wall of energy.. Nothing brought his brother down faster than being incapacitated. He glanced at David, making sure he was out of earshot, and he sat beside him for a moment. "Dean...I know this sucks. And I know how important it is to you that we find her. Me and David; we'll do everything we can, but I need you to keep thinking about all this while we're gone. You had a really awful experience with these sonsofbitches, but you're on the inside a whole lot more than we are. If there's any detail you can remember, anything at all, that might point us somewhere; you call me, ok? Cause I'll have my hands full keeping David safe, and without you, right now we'd have nothing."

It was calculated, and not entirely false. And it had the desired effect; Dean took a settling breath and nodded, assuaged somewhat that despite his state, he was still needed. He relaxed a little then, accepting it. "Alright. Go, hurry up. Check out your spots, and if I think of anything, I'll call you."

They left him then. He would spend the next few hours wracking his brain for useful details, while Sam and David drove and searched fruitlessly through their list.

* * *

They'd crawled over yet another entry on their list. Nothing. They'd found no trace of anything other than pigeons, cow shit and poor foundation waterproofing. Sam sat on a cracked slab of concrete, and buried his heavy head in his hands. They had come up empty again. They had squat. Every damned cellar, every barn, every abandoned building within a fifty mile radius had been searched and discounted. Water and stone. Well, based on that criteria, Johan was some sort of visionary, because he must have found something that had steadfastly eluded them. David sat on the bumper of the rental, exhausted and crestfallen.

"Sam, I think this bastard threw us a curve."

Sam raised his head. "Who, Paul or Johan?"

David scratched his unruly salt and pepper hair. "Paul has no reason to, as far as I can see. I think his fearless leader has been feeding him shit. Maybe Johan has, in the past, chosen places like Paul expects; old, stone, water, whatever. But I'm thinking of what Paul said earlier, about his having known Johan for some time, but knowing nothing. Seems to me that maybe this one protects himself not only from the living, but from his own kind as well. If he's been around for centuries, I'm inclined to think that he doesn't let anyone in to his inner circle. I mean ultimately, everyone's a rival to him, aren't they? Kind of a contest to see who can last the longest."

Sam blinked. David surprised him again with his insight. "Crap. David, I think you're on to something. Johan probably plans for things like this; betrayal from within the ranks. He throws Paul a bone about his needs, or his preferences, and Paul, or in this case us, heads out on a wild goose chase while the sonofabitch operates under everyone's nose." He sighed, and got up. "We've been wasting our time. We're spinning our wheels, and Johan's probably watching and laughing his ass off somewhere._ 'I am old; I must be near these ancient things' _What a load of crap!"

It wasn't exactly a turning point for them in their search. Not a positive one, at any rate. All it did was highlight that they, as well as the vampire Paul, had probably been duped, and Johan could be literally anywhere.

"What now then?" David asked dejectedly.

Sam reached down and picked up a stone, throwing it away with a violence. It bounced up the pavement and disappeared into the roadside grass. It was getting on in the evening. He was tired and hungry, and worried about Dean. David shared in all those sentiments. "I don't know. Shit, David, we covered so much ground, but we're still nowhere. I'd just as well head back to see Dean. He didn't answer last time I called, sleeping I guess. We need to tell him this, and decide what to do before Paul gets up. Neither one's going to be too happy."

David agreed, and the weary duo got back into the rental and headed back.

* * *

Dean had finished his pitcher of water. He'd consumed all the things they'd left for him. He'd taken the pills David had scheduled. All he could do was wait now. But waiting was never his strongest suit. He turned to check the time through every electronic means available; the bedside clock, his phone, his unclasped watch, and they all said the same thing. The minutes were crawling with an agonizing slowness. He was stuck in the room, stifling in his sweat-dampened sheets, alone, and useless. He wanted to leap up from the bed, throw on some clothes and floor the Impala out to save the day, but every time he tried he was met by the brick wall of his weakness. No matter how much he wanted to contribute, he had to finally admit that he was not going to be the leader of the charge this time.

The minutes dragged into hours. It was only through extreme effort that he refrained from calling as often as he wanted to. He knew that was counter-productive. He stared at the ceiling, he slept fitfully, he tried to sit up without collapsing in starry blackness. Finally his basic needs refused to be ignored, and after the humiliation of his days of bound captivity, he vowed he would make it to the damned bathroom or die trying. The IV bags were nearly done emptying into his thirsty vein; he yanked the tube from the port David had inserted into the back of his hand. He meted out his strength like it was gold, knowing from previous attempts that he was severely limited. He counted the steps down like a NASA launch. When he had mastered the altitude of sitting up, he searched around for handholds for the next procedure._ Headboard. Chair-top. Closet door frame. Bathroom knob_. He took his time and met each challenge, stopping between to gasp in pain as his taut burned skin was stretched to painful capacity. A hearty chant of expletives helped him cope, and he made it to his goal. Afterward, when he was able, he carefully braced himself against the sink edge, and turned on the tap. Cool water flowed over his hand, and he scooped it up and splashed it over his face, and cupped more to drink. It was the best water he'd ever had; hard-won and overdue. When he was quenched, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. Grey-skinned, and sprouting reddish growth over chin and upper lip. He could be a pirate's corpse. _That ain't pretty,_ he thought. He looked like shit. But he shrugged off his vanity and concentrated on negotiating his way back to bed. It was harder this time...the distance back to soft and padded safety was the same, but he'd exceeded his ability, and a cold wave of faintness flooded through him. _Little further..._he cajoled. Nausea accompanied his vertigo, and he white-knuckle gripped the closet bifold door, swaying where he stood. Just a couple of feet to the bed...

He shut his eyes tight again to keep the whirl from spiralling him off to oblivion, but it was an effort that cost more than he had. His breath came in shallow gulps as he tried to focus on the few feet that yawned like a chasm between his feet and the bed, but it failed to put the breaks on his spinning descent, and he gave in to it with a defeated groan. He let go of the door and dropped like a sack of sand, grasping blindly for any handhold as he slipped to the carpeted floor. He found the night table edge, and hauled it down with him, scattering its contents. In the wake of his descent, he lay panting on the floor, surrounded by things that should have been elsewhere; the up-ended lamp, the alarm clock, his water glass, and phone. He let the darkness take him. When it began to wane, and sight and sound returned, he laughed without humour at his predicament. He lay for a while on the carpet, thankful that it was reasonably clean. When he could summon the courage to haul himself up, he gritted his teeth and reached up to grip the edge of the mattress, and he pulled himself to his knees, shuddering at the pain in his middle. He rested his head against the rumpled bedspread, eyes closed. And counting to three, he hauled himself back up onto the bed.

He drifted for a while. He didn't know how long, he couldn't see the clock where it had landed on its face, casting a halo of blue light on the floor. Nor his phone, a yard or so away. His tender arms screamed in protest at the abuse, and again he turned his shaking hands palms up to relieve the contact with the burned skin. He could see the the sun was setting, and in a way, he was glad. Sam would be back soon, successful or not. And David, bless him, could shoot him with something that would make the bloody pain retreat. It interfered with his thinking now and he needed to feel he had at least some grip on his situation. He turned again to the ceiling tiles, but they offered no comfort. He felt his heart begin to race. It was just a little claustrophobia, he admonished, ordering himself to settle down. He tried his best to relax and wait patiently for Sam's return. It didn't work, and without being able to measure the passage of time, he began to feel the rise of an unreasonable panic.

.._The car_. He needed to get out to the car. In the Impala, he could relax, he could put in a tape, check the time and keep from stroking out with imagined worries while he waited. _Yeah..._

He raised his head and surveyed the shadowed room. The keys were in his coat, which was hanging on a hook on the back of the door. _Good._ His shoes were out of his view, but he didn't care; nobody would be looking at his feet. He checked to make sure he was dressed adequately to leave the room, and he carefully buttoned his long sleeved shirt to hide his bandages. And with the clean sweats Sam had put him in, he figured he was decent enough for public view. Not that anyone was around, but you never knew. Duly prepared then, and painfully aware of what happened the last time he got up, Dean made his way from his bed to the door in measured and calculated increments. He clung to his coat when he got there, and took some time to recover from the expenditure of effort. When he felt better equipped, he shrugged it on and fished out the keys, and opened the door.

* * *

It was growing dark, and still raining. The cold drops hit him like needles, he flinched and swore at their touch. He stumbled the short distance to where she sat so patiently. Rain beaded on her black coat, like dew on a panther's sleek hide. It was a thing of beauty. He laughed inwardly at himself for waxing so poetic, and unlocked the door, settling in gingerly, and pulling the heavy door closed behind him. The black leather seat was unyielding and firm with the cool temp, and it took a while to soften, but when it did, it accepted his form like the warm embrace of an old friend. He sighed deeply. He hurt, almost too much to describe, and he was so drained that the slightest activity was a monumental achievement if it didn't render him unconscious. But he was home now.

He settled back in his seat, and let relief wash over him like a drug. He adjusted the seat back a little to accommodate his discomfort, and fished underneath for his precious box. The torn cardboard offered up his treasure-trove of tapes, and he selected one that suited, and he turned the key. The car fired up with a growl of protest, not unexpected considering the rain. But she warmed up and settled momentarily into her familiar purr, and he felt the comforting vibration of her contented rumble through his seat. He pushed the tape in then, and closed his eyes.

After a short and precious period of peace, his eyes flew open. _Shit. Shitshitshit!- _He'd left the god-damned phone behind, somewhere on the carpet where it had fallen. It was nothing, under normal circumstances. So what? just go back in and get it-big deal. Well, it was a big deal. He may as well have left it in the last county, it would take as much effort to retrieve. He derided himself for his stupidity. He debated the merits of ignoring it's absence, but he knew he couldn't take it. Sam could be calling right then, and he couldn't help. He growled a curse and shut the car off.

As he steeled himself to exit the car, Dean saw something. His motel neighbour from several doors down was leaving. The man was absurdly protected from the elements, even if it was raining. He had his oil-skin trenchcoat collar pulled high, and a hat yanked down far over his ears. He had gloves on, which was ridiculous. It wasn't that cold; maybe he was a visitor from warmer climes, not used to the temperature fluxes of the area. But he still looked like a jack-ass, regardless, and Dean snorted at his expense. The man ducked into his car as if the rain would melt him, and he hastily left the parking lot. Dean still couldn't get a decent look at him, his face was a dark and featureless blur, it was almost as if he was wearing a drab mask. Even the car windows were tinted so illegally dark that he was sure to be pulled over. When the car had been gone for several moments, Dean turned his attention to the unit the man had left. In the waning light, it stuck out oddly. The other rooms that were occupied had varying degrees of light spilling from them. But this one was different. Dean had caught sight of light behind the doorway as the occupant left the room. Nothing out of the ordinary. But when the door closed, it plunged the room facade into total darkness. All the other windows allowed some illumination past the curtains, but this one was starkly different. No light escaped whatsoever. Dean cocked his head at the anomaly, He knew he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer at the moment, but that didn't sit right. It begged an explanation. He decided it warranted some snooping. He was in desperate need of distraction, and this little mystery suited. He looked around, behind the car, but nothing moved in the grey rain, and he seemed to be alone. He knew he'd have to get back anyway, just to retrieve the damned phone...might as well take at peek at Unit 9 on the way. He geared up for the effort and slowly exited the car. The trek across the parking spaces was endless. He nearly dropped halfway, but he regrouped out of sheer pride. He reached the stuccoed wall, and made his way toward the oddly darkened window.

.He tried to peek in, but there wasn't a single crack between the window treatment and frame. It defied logic, until it struck him... _Paint_. It was painted! What he'd assumed to be a tightly pulled shade was in fact, much more opaque. Someone had taken the time and effort to spray-paint the window completely, so that neither light nor peering eyes could penetrate the glass. He pulled back in sudden alarm. The significance of that was screaming loudly to him. Nobody needed that kind of privacy...this was done for one reason alone. Whoever was renting number 9 didn't want to see the daylight, and had gone to abnormal lengths to assure it stayed out of the room. No regular joe had that kind of requirements. He caught his breath, heart pounding. For a frightening second or two, he felt the dreaded creep of cold crawl up his veins, but he fought the faint, and waited it out. When he felt more grounded, he glanced around fearfully, and tried the door.

It was locked, naturally. He pursed his lips tightly and fished through his breast pocket, retrieving what he sought. His little burglary kit was in hand, and he pulled from it a particular tool, and deftly disabled the latch. When he heard the click of its retreat, he tucked away his kit and carefully opened the door a crack.

It was lit inside, just as he'd seen earlier. He glanced around again, not daring to breathe, and pushed it wide enough to slip through.

The scene that met his tired eyes then would burn in his memory forever.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Johan felt the sting pierce his carefully wrapped mask, and he cursed the touch of the last remaining light. Even with the greyness of the rain, he could feel the UV penetrate the cloth. He wished the night would hasten. He was hungry, and he wanted everything that was available to him now. He knew that the hunters would figure it out eventually. They would return any moment, dejected and tired, angry with their lack of success. He smiled to himself, knowing the directions in which Paul would have sent them._ Idiot_. He had a healthy respect for the younger vampire's sheer physicality, but he had long ago assessed him and found him flawed by an unseemly conscience. Paul was bound by his own high principles, perhaps some relic of his human experience. He was unyielding, and earnest, and it hamstrung him. He was that much easier to manipulate.

Johan was old. He did appreciate the solidity and security of stone. And of course he loved the water; he grew up on it, spent his formative years on the decks of VOC ships plying and plundering the East Indies for the Dutch markets. Perhaps he truly did pine for these things. But he didn't need them.

.._Ah Paul._..Paul had been a worthy companion. He was always a touch prudish for Johan's taste, having been plucked from an Irish seminary and turned, while still filled with the vigors of youth and the firebrand of religious vocation. The quality, if one chose to call it that, never left him, really. He chose his friends carefully after his change, and his victims more-so. Johan would miss him... For a moment, anyway.

He knew his former ally would awaken soon. He was glad that Paul had none of his own stamina for day-walking. If he'd done as Johan had, torturing, working to lace his feedings with the chemicals that drove the living to transcend their own limits, he would have been a danger now. But his curse of morality had never allowed it. And Paul, of course, knew Johan's transport. He had to hide the car, or risk tipping them off before he was ready.

And then there was the Winchester; the object of Iris's hatred, now lying nearly spent a few doors down. Johan had checked on him frequently, watching through a crack in the curtains as the hunter struggled against weakness and pain. His mouth slavered at the remembrance. He was amazed that the man was still alive, considering. But he'd heard the legends of these brothers, so he had come to expect a certain level of resistance. He could only guess at percentage of adrenalin infusing his blood by now. The vampire could hardly contain his lust for it. As soon as he had the full advantage of darkness, he would drain that troublesome vessel dry. And the others; well, it remained to be seen how he would take them. But Paul would be a treat that he would savour for a long time. Human blood, especially the way he took it, was a pleasure almost beyond description, but to take a fellow vampire's essence was a forbidden ecstasy, a dark sin amongst his own that he could hardly wait to commit. He had all the advantage, being able to operate in daylight. He was tired, of course, bone tired. But he was up, while others like him slept, and that was all the difference. And he was waiting.

When he'd hidden the car sufficiently, he strode back through the rain and approached his usually well-sealed door. But this time, light spilled from it; a narrow, glowing strip lighting the deepening grey around it. He tensed, stopping in mid-stride. He glanced around, but nothing was changed. The hunters hadn't returned, as far as he could see. And the other one was in such a bad way, he was fairly sure that he couldn't have... He didn't finish that thought. His eye caught a hint of movement. No, something _had_ changed. A slight curl of steam rose from the wet hood of the black car several doors down. Johan's eyes narrowed, and he turned back, approaching his door with the stealth of a snake.

* * *

Dean nearly slipped to his knees. When he'd pushed the door open and entered, he was shocked to see the interior of the room. It was carnage, by any descripion. The bodies of the proprietor and his wife lay in a grey, rigored heap, discarded like empty wrappers on the floor. The air within was cloying; heavy with the stench of some kind of incense, burnt flesh, blood, and the unmistakable medley of odours that rose from the freshly dead. And bound and gagged in the middle of that horror lay a girl.

"Iris!"

Dean stumbled to the bedside, speechless with shock. He scrambled with nerveless fingers to free her from the duct tape that silenced her, and when she could speak, she merely sighed. Tears were dried in trails across her face, but none flowed now, she had nothing left. Dean fought the urge to gag as he surveyed her. Burned skin, the distinctive triangular shape of a travel iron, still plugged and radiating on the night table. Cigarette burns... It seemed Johan had forgone the use of fire this time, he'd found more modern, convenient means. Her throat bore the same marks his did. She was ashen, and struggling for breath.

"Shhhh.." he said shakily. "I'm here. It's ok...it'll be ok." He worked at the cord that bound her to the head and footboard, cursing his wooden hands, and managed to loosen and pull her limbs free. She didn't move.

"C'mon, honey, we[ve gotta get out of here-" he said quietly, patting her face. She was barely conscious, and she blinked in response, her pupils dark with terror. She was far too weakened to help herself any more, she stayed silent, her face crumpling in dry tears. He saw her transparent skin, her bluish lips. Her breathing was irregular and barely raised her chest. He knew she was nearly done.

He couldn't lift her. He pushed his hands under her and tried to haul her off the bed, but her limp weight was more than he could manage in his state. She didn't react as he sweated and cursed to pull her toward safety. The vampire would return, maybe any second, and Dean taxed himself to exhaustion in his effort get her out, nearly blacking out with the strain. But he got her off the bed and onto the carpet, but it's texture resisted his pulling of her, and he coughed and panted, as he dragged her body across by hard-won inches, closer and closer to the partially open door.

"Come on, Iris!" he growled, fighting tears of pain and frustration. "Help me! For christs sake, move!"

He felt no response, no tensing of her muscles, nothing. He stopped, and looked into her half closed eyes. "Iris, please...please, you've gotta help me-" he begged quietly. "We can do this; Paul loves you, he's coming for you."

Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment she focused. She mouthed the vampire's name.

_Bingo-_ "Yeah, that's right. Your brother's best friend has it bad for you. So help me, Iris! Don't let him find the both of us as corpses!"

She drew a deeper breath and swallowed hard, her eyes looking off in confusion. He saw her fingers curl and scrape across the flooring, and for a second he thought he had reached her.

"That's it, sweetheart. Paul's coming. But so is that other bastard, so help me, ok? Try, Iris! Try to get up with me!"

She moaned. He saw her steel herself, and begin to gather herself to move. He knew how hard it was, he'd felt that utter lack of strength himself. He silently cheered. She tried to roll over and he helped her, steadying her as she pulled her elbows slowly beneath her body and rose on to them.

"Good, that's good. Just pull yourself, Iris, the door's so close, we're almost there-" He was on his knees, arms clasped around her middle, ignoring the ferocious pain in his forearms. It was working, she seemed to find it within herself to keep moving. He sweated to pull her along, and began to feel relief as the cool air flowed over his face through the open door. He turned to look beyond it, but a shadowy figure suddenly blocked his view. He recoiled as the door was kicked wide..

Johan stood still for a moment, surveying the scene. He carefully shut the door behind him, and when all threat of natural light was extinguished, he wrenched his leather mask off and his face split wide in a grin of sheer pleasure. "Oh!" he laughed with pure glee, "You came to me! Wonderful!" He almost danced with his unexpected gain. "I am so flattered!" He seized upon Dean where he knelt and grasped him by the collar, dragging him free of the heavy weight of the girl. Dean was helpless to resist. He flailed at Johan's strong, cold hands, but he couldn't pry them away, and he found himself lifted and thrown, hitting the apex of wall and floor with a force that winded him and left him reeling. But before he could regroup, the vampire was on him. Johan pressed him to the floor. grasping Dean's hair and nearly breaking his neck with the force of his pull. Dean felt the vampire's breath against his throat, and he recoiled with a fierceness that surprised the both of them. He rolled out from under him, clutching wildly for anything with which he could defend himself. Johan hardly skipped a beat, he pounced back on his victim and tried to pin him where he lay, but Dean saw him coming. He shifted, squirming half under the bed, deflecting the vampire's thrust. He scrambled about for a weapon. His fingers found the curled and dusty bristles of a broom in a corner, and he pulled it close, and wedged it against the carpet to haul himself up. Once on his feet, he had only a split second to react as Johan threw his full weight at him. He fell back against the bed edge, and the broom handle, still clutched hard in his hand, shattered into two jagged pieces against the iron frame. The dry old hickory splintered, leaving Dean with a short section. His fingers were tightly twined amongst the nylon filaments, and he clenched them tightly. Johan lunged again, and his clammy hands found Dean's tender throat. He gripped hard, and Dean's eyes bulged with the pressure. The stricken hunter clawed with his free hand at the vampire's wrists, but the hold tightened. Stars began to prick, then explode in his vision, Dean writhed and gasped in silence, turning blue and flailing at his assailant's face as it leered over his own

"Oh yes, fill your veins with it; struggle hard, my friend-" Johan taunted hoarsely. He was glassy-eyed with expectation. "Go on, find that well of strength within you! Feed me!"

Dean's heart felt like it would burst along with his starving lungs. Sensation began to fade, and he felt a wash of almost welcome indifference as his muscles relaxed. His lids fluttered, his eyes rolled up.

"Your failure is my fervent delight, hunter." the vampire breathed against his ear. "Go to your grave with this; she dies with you, and because of you."

Johan's words hit home. "_no.._" Dean thought, "_no! Don't you lay that blame on me, you sonofabitch!_ He blinked hard and chased away the fog, long enough to feel again. He grew aware of the bristles between his fingers, the broom section was still in his hand. He curled his hand tightly, and willed his failing senses to recognize what he wanted to do.

Johan felt Dean tense beneath him, but he was so rapturous with anticipation that he didn't take notice. He brushed his open mouth along Dean's damp neck, then sunk his teeth into the raised vein above his crushing hands with a deep sigh.

Dean lurched, and in one final, desperate act, he pulled the broom close, dug his nails into its centre for grip, and drove it's shattered end with everything he had into the body that pressed heavily against him.

* * *

Johan grunted in surprise. His eyes flew open in shock, and his canines tore back out of his victim's throat. He stared at Dean, wide-eyed in disbelief. For a moment, time was suspended, their eyes locked on each other's as one man couldn't believe he'd done it, and the other began to grasp what had been done. Spent now, Dean's vision failed, and he felt the broom-head tear out of his hands, and the weight of the body lift away. The crushing tightness released from his throat and he gasped for breath; heaving, sucking precious oxygen into his bruised trachea as he forced himself to roll away. He found the wall and the room swam and darkened. He caught the blurred vision of Johan stumbling back, wall-eyed, spewing blood and falling. Sound dissolved into white noise and his senses abandoned him. Dean sank into the carpet, the walls stretched around his outline and formed a velvety tunnel. Lines softened, shapes lost integrity, and he dropped into a yawning oblivion.

* * *

Sam cursed the rain. It made dusk appear that much sooner. He wondered out loud about how Dean was doing.

"He'll be ok, Sam." David assured. "We'll be back there in a minute. He's just finally taking the time he needs to start healing. I expect him to be asleep...hell, I'll give him a piece of my mind if doesn't."

Sam grunted in distracted agreement. But there was hardly time to discuss the angles of whether or not Dean would comply with the doc's recommendations. They were back at the motel before the conversation was finished. Sam parked beside the Impala. He was glad to be back. The two got out of the car, both ducking against he windswept rain.

"Geez, it's nasty now!" David commented, squinting as the wind buffeted.

Sam nodded. "Not exactly like the last few days. It was too hot before. This isn't any better." They passed the Impala, and as he did so, Sam put his hand on it briefly, as he often did. A talisman, for good luck. He felt the warmth still radiating from the engine. He stopped and David caught his eye.

"What, Sam?"

"The car's been run. Recently-"

David heard the alarm in the young man's voice. They turned, and ran from the car to the door.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Aw jesus!"

He was gone. Sam paced about the room, beside himself with worry. "He can't have done it again!" He was used to Dean going awol from care, but he had no reason to do so now.

David righted the up-ended table, and asked the question that he feared. "Something happened in here; do you think he was taken?"

"I don't know...maybe." Sam picked up the cell phone from where it had landed on the carpet. He'd have expected the place to have been more totalled if someone had tried to take him. Weakened or not, Dean would have put up a bitter fight. Everything else within the room was fairly normal, even the door was closed and unmarred; the lock was intact; no splinters were shed from its frame. Apparently no one had forced their way in. He realized that something was missing. "His coat is gone." A quick check showed it was nowhere in the room. "So he put on his coat...means he probably left on his own." He remembered the warmth of the car hood, and it dawned on him. He knew his brother well. Dean was stubborn, but even moreso, he was sentimental; and unreasonably emotionally connected to that car. Any time he was uneasy, or upset, he could be found in it. It was his sanctuary. "David, I think he managed to get out to the Impala. He does that, when he's freaked out."

David shook his head. "In his state?! He could barely lift his head, I can't picture him making his way outside."

Sam smiled a little. "You don't know that stubborn sonofabitch. If he wanted to get to that stupid car, he'd crawl if he had to." He hoped he hadn't had to. "His shoes are still here...I guess he didn't plan on going very far." He sat on the bed and sighed. It was almost fully dark outside now. Paul would arrive at any moment; intense, angry, and, well...unpleasantly vampiric. He got up grimly, his stomach a tight and uncomfortable knot of worry. "We'd better check around outside, to start. He can't be far, if he was walking."

David felt a little sick. He nodded, and ran a hand through his wiry hair, then pulled his glasses off to rub the tired grit from his eyes. He was still adjusting to being in the thick of things, Winchester-style. He had a bad feeling about all of it, and he didn't know if it was simply stress, or if he was indeed now seeing the lay of the land like a true hunter. He suddenly longed for his comfortably styleless livingroom, and his slippers and his dog.

Sam paused with a hand on the doorknob. "You ok, David..?"

The doc nodded unconvincingly. "Yeah...I'm...I'm just.." He cursed. "I'm fine, I'm just not used to this. "

Sam sympathized. He hoped David never would be. He patted his shoulder. "Just be extra eyes and ears for me, David. I've got the rest covered." David nodded and the two of them stepped out into the dark.

* * *

They stood by the Impala, each staring down the length of the motel building. It was quiet; few cars were parked in front of the units. Most were dark, a few had the flicker of bluish light shining past the curtains; some one watching television. The rain still pestered, although it had grown thinner since the daylight faded. Small mercies. David pulled his coat closer, and he glanced at Sam, who had started to walk the opposite way up the row of rooms. Sam passed each room and stopped, searching for anything that could steer them. David took his lead and began to do the same.

His end was shorter, and after deciding that there was nothing unusual, he turned back to trudge back toward the car. When he reached it, Sam was already making his way back.

"Nothing amiss there, I think." David reported uncertainly. He wasn't exactly sure what he was supposed to be looking for, but he certainly saw no evidence of Dean.

Sam joined him at the car's side, and stood in silence, hands on his hips, scanning the darkness. He squinted against the stinging rain as it gusted against his face. All he could see was darkness; some shadowy and unremarkable shrubbery. He peered hard at the ground, his eyes following anything that could be a path or lead, but there was really little that qualified. It was getting hard to see. He glanced back to the car, following the lines from the ground up. The door, he knew, was locked. No evidence of prying, or tampering. Dean seemed to have left it under his own steam. He drew a breath to combat his frustration, and turned to David. "David, let's split up and-"

He didn't finish. David's eyes darted past him as a sound of a door opening abruptly several doors down pierced the steady din of rain and wind. Sam whipped around, and they witnessed as a figure fell through and hit the pavement, illuminated by the sudden spill of light. Sam had been past that room, twice; it was pitch dark and he'd dismissed it as empty. He caught David's eye, drew his gun and sprinted toward it.

* * *

The figure rose before they reached him, and stumbled away into the black brush. Sam was poised to chase him but he stopped short at David's shout. David had entered the room, and Sam followed quickly at his friend's urgent call. The doctor was already crouched over someone who lay sprawled by the wall. He was frantically checking him for life-signs.

"Dean!" Sam fairly stumbled over the other body in front of the door. He crouched beside David, anxiously waiting for some sign that his brother was alive. "Is he-"

"Alive, yes!" David said, all business now. He pushed Sam clear and barked "Get a towel!"

Sam stepped past and snatched something from the bathroom and tossed ot to him. Dean groaned and his eyes opened slightly. He swallowed hard and protested softly as David pressed it against his bleeding throat.

"No..David, don't; Iris-" he struggled.

"Shut up." David ordered tersely. But Dean raised his hand and grasped the sleeve of his friend. "Check her!" he rasped. "Iris...she's hurt, check on her!"

Sam took his place, and David turned his attention to the other victim sprawled on the carpet. There was blood everywhere, spattered on the floor, the bed, on both of the occupants. He quickly turned her over, and gasped at the state of her. _Burns-_ She was bleeding sluggishly from the neck, and her eyes were half opened, fixed and glassy. But she was breathing. The fresh blood was apparently not hers. He was alarmed by her responses. Her breathing was shallow and almost reluctant, as if she had to remind herself to do so. Her pulse was dangerously rapid. He turned toward Sam. "She's dying! She's in shock-"

Sam had begun to pull Dean up, at his brother's insistence. Dean propped against the wall, panting, and trying to steady the rotationg world in his fuzzy view. "Help her!" he insisted, over and over. When the remembered threat struck him, he focused, and glanced around wildly. "Johan; where is he, is he dead?"

Sam tried to settle him. "Easy, Dean. Don't move. He got away, we couldn't go after him. David's with her now."

David continued to minister to Iris as she lay deathly still on the carpet. He glanced up once at the others, a look of professional panic etched on his face "She's so drained! Christ, she's hanging on by a thread; she'll never make it to emergency!"

Dean swore, and grew fretful, and he tried to rise, but couldn't. He squirmed against the hands that held him. "David, no! Give her my blood, anything, do something!"

Sam held him still. "Dean, it's too late.." he said quietly. "Stay still, You're in no shape; let David do his thing-"

* * *

The argument was squelched by the arrival of a third party. Paul appeared suddenly at the doorway; red hair flying, a wild and anxious look on his face. He wasn't the shadow he'd been earlier. He radiated power now, freshly infused with the blood of some unfortunate sinner. He saw Iris first, and he dropped to her side.

"What happened?!" he demanded, grasping David's arm brusquely.

David wrenched free but didn't look up, he was frantically administering CPR. "I'm losing her!" he growled. "Get out of my way!" He pushed the vampire aside and continued, cursing as her vitals refused to stabilize. "Jesus, come on, girl, stay with me!" He pressed her chest, _one-two-three-_and listened again. Her body wasn't picking up the rhythm.

Paul took it all in, and his face bore a look of pain that was agony to witness. "Iris!" he shouted, grasping at her limp shoulders. "It's me, it's Paul, I'm here!"

She showed no sign that she had heard, and the vampire turned to David. "Fix this!" he hissed, teeth bared. "Fix her! You're supposed to be able to do it, damn you!"

Aware of what was happening, Dean pushed Sam aside. He crawled toward Paul where he hovered over Iris. David kept up his attempts, sweating hard, and finding no response. "Paul!" Dean rasped.

The vampire tore his eyes away from her white face.

"Paul, listen to me-" Dean said, gripping the vampire's forearm. "She's done! Johan made sure of it; for god's sake, look at her! There's nothing we can do for her now-"

Paul struck out and knocked Dean's hand away. "No! Don't you lie to me! This one; he has the skill, he can save her!" He turned to David, looming over him, with a fearfully threatening expression. "Do it!" he hissed. "Or as God is my witness, if you let her die-"

Dean gathered what little strength he had and roared at the distraught and dangerous vampire. "She's nearly dead, for christ's sake! He can't bring her back, he's not a f~cking witch-doctor!"

He couldn't believe he was about to suggest the next course of action. It went against everything he'd ever devoted himself to. He held Paul back, a hand against his chest. "Listen to me! If you want to see her saved, then you do it! You're the only one who can stop her from dying now, you hear me? If you want to see her survive, you've got to turn her!"

* * *

Paul reeled at the enormity of Dean's words. He let go of her for a second, dropping his hands loosely. His red-rimmed eyes registered his shock, and then grew bleak with his understanding. A look of horror froze on his tear-stained, ashen face.

"Did you hear me? Paul!" Dean demanded. "Answer me!"

Paul stared at Dean for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the silent, white face of Iris. He shook his head, imperceptibly at first, then with greater vehemence. "No-" he croaked. "No!" He stood up and backed away, wide-eyed, conflicted, filled with a torturous awareness that indeed her mortal life was in his hands.

David struggled to keep her heart beating but he was growing weary with the doomed effort. "She's not responding! Damn it, Sam; I need my kit from the room!"

Sam immediately dashed out to retrieve it, and when he'd returned, David grabbed a pre-loaded syringe and he plunged it into Iris's chest. He forced adrenalin into her system, in a last ditch attempt to restore her grip on life. But it failed, and her body began to shut down. He turned toward the vampire then, a mixture of despair and fear in his eyes. "I can't do any more.."

A heavy silence crushed the room, and Dean broke it. "Do it, Paul!" he whispered harshly. "Turn her, now! Do it or she's dead!"

Paul blinked. He stared from one to the other, then dropped to his knees. David moved away from Iris, and Paul reached down and pulled her nearly lifeless body to him. He held her close, rocking softly, brushing her hair away from her half-open eyes. He stroked her face, whispering to her, so softly that the others couldn't hear the words. His own pink-tinged tears dripped steadily onto her face. He ran his white fingers over her eyes, closing them, trailing across her slack, bluish lips.

"You have to do it now!" Dean urged in a final whisper. He collapsed then, as exhaustion and pain took their toll.

Sam pulled him away, laying him out at a safer distance, and he brought the towel to Dean's bloodied throat again. He watched, breathless, at the scene playing out in front of them.

David stood frozen. He'd done everything he could, and it wasn't enough.

But Paul was aware of nothing but Iris. He held her tightly, weeping in silence, breathing in the scent of her hair, shaking his head. "No.." he said softly, over and over. "No.." He knew his curse was the key to her living. He couldn't bear the thought of her dying. But he loved her; he'd loved her for years with a quiet, secret passion. He would not do that to her. He wouldn't do it to Conrad. He knew what it meant to be changed. For some, it was exalting; a powerful, exciting, deliciously evil new life. But for those like him, who still bore the cruelty of a conscience, it was the purest hell imaginable. He made a choice, then. It cut his heart to pieces, but he did it. He let her go.

Dean turned toward their rapidly blurring shape. "Paul..." he said softly.

Paul turned away. He gathered her lifeless body up, and he stood then, carrying her as if she was weightless. He stepped toward the door, and turned. His face was harsh, and set in stone.

"She goes to God." he said flatly. "I will not condemn her soul to hell along with mine." He stared at Dean. " Hunter, can you hear me?"

Dean was faint, the hiss of blood rising in his ears. He nodded shakily. "..yeah.."

"Did you kill him? Is Johan truly dead?!"

Dean had no choice but to answer truthfully. " I...I ran him through with hardwood. It stopped him cold. But he stumbled out that door. I...I don't know if he will die from that."

Paul growled a string of gaelic curses. His eyes flashed with fury. "Then know this;" he snarled, "I will come back for you, Dean Winchester. I swear by all that I once held holy, I will come to claim what you owe me. You have your life because of me. I should have let them kill you.. I should have allowed her to have her vengeance. This is what comes of my efforts..._This_."

He paused to regain control, and continued. "Tomorrow, I will return. Johan will pay for this atrocity. And you will help me serve him the death you failed to deliver tonight!" He turned from them, and gathering his precious burden, he disappeared into the night.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The silence in his wake was deafening. Paul was gone, and so was the girl. It left the three of them to deal with the aftermath.

David, accustomed only the denouement of these things, was shocked by the experience, and sharply mourning his inability to save her. He stood, hugging his arms close, and torturing himself with endless _I-should-haves_.

Sam was more seasoned; he had recovered from the moment, and was supporting Dean, who had grown limp against his hold. Sam lowered him to the carpet gently. He kept the towel in place, and urged his brother to relax. "He's gone, Dean. Iris is gone. There's nothing we can do now."

Dean stared at him, blinking hard. Sam was a blurred shape, and growing ever more amorphous as he felt his grip on the world abandon him. He remembered the other victims. "The owners-" he whispered, pointing near where they lay.

Sam looked to David, who glanced up and caught sight of the unfortunate couple. David moved toward them, and he spent several minutes with them before he shook his head. "They're dead." he said. They bore the marks of feeding, but thank god, they had not suffered as Iris had. He pulled a sheet off the nearest bed and covered them, and he stood up, still reeling. "What should we do?"

Sam slipped his arms beneath Dean where he lay. He lifted him with some difficulty, and when he was able to steady himself with his weight, he answered. "We need to get the hell out of here, David; out of this room, out of this motel. Shit's gonna hit the fan, with all the blood and the bodies. We'll find someplace quieter."

David surveyed the room. It was a gory testament to the carnage, and impossible to explain to the law. He nodded. He gathered up anything that was theirs, and held the door open. Dean tried, but couldn't support himself, and he cursed quietly. Sam shushed him. "Easy; just stay still, I've got you. We'll get out to the car, ok? Then I'll clear us out of our unit and we'll put some miles between us and this mess."

He nodded wearily, and let himself be hauled out into the rain.

* * *

Sam quickly vacated their own room and packed their things into the trunk of the Impala. He wiped away any prints for good measure, and drove away from horrors of that place. David followed in his rental. After some quiet travel they located a safer refuge. This time, in a rare stroke of luck, they found a place where a separate cabin was available, and it was as close to perfect as they could hope under the circumstances. They were well past any reasonable check in time, but the night manager kindly let them in anyway. Sam had gotten Dean in without any unwanted attention, and he laid him out on a bed. All three were stumbling with exhaustion, after the strain and the late hour. And Dean was clearly suffering from his violent altercation with Johan.

When their gear had been brought in and they had settled, David switched into physician mode. He checked everything he could with Dean, he'd changed the dressings on the burns, and re-stitched the torn punctures at his throat. When he'd finished, he sat back, tired and shell-shocked. "You'll be ok, eventually.." he assured Dean half-heartedly. "I think you hardly lost any blood this time. I wish I had more plasma to give you, but at the moment, I don't. Your heart-rate is alright. You'll still be feeling weak...that'll be with you for a while. But my professional opinion is that you're a tough and stubborn SOB that'll survive this just fine."

Dean nodded. He thanked him wryly for the assessment, and sighed. "Ok then. So how 'bout you, Doctor Bowman? How are you making out after all this shit?"

David looked up, and met his eyes. He was battling extreme exhaustion, and so many other things. "Me..? How am _I_ making out?"

"Yeah, genius, what's your own diagnosis here?"

David was too tired to spar. "Well, it doesn't really matter, does it? You're pummelled, but will rebound. Sam is beat, but it's all par for the course. A girl is dead, partly because I couldn't save her. Oh, and she's been taken away by a bloody vampire... Two hapless old motel-keepers are lying in rigor on the floor of the last place I was staying, where landscapes are painted on the walls in blood. Lemme see...anything else?"

Dean leaned against his latest headboard. "No..that about covers it." he said quietly. "I hear you. And David, maybe this is too little, too late, but...thanks, for saving my ass."

David nodded in silence. He drew a deep breath and sighed. "I wish I could have done as much for the girl... God, I am so damned tired. I can't begin... How about we all crash for a while? Sam, I know you're as tired as I am, And Dean...you'll certainly benefit from some sleep."

No one offered any argument. There were two beds, and a roll-away. Dean had already been laid out on the one bed, and Sam claimed the rollaway. David simply dropped on to the third option. As he lay there, appreciating the lumpy comfort of it, he offered Dean some options for relief. "I have some things with me, Dean, for the pain. -Don't shake your head, for christ's sake, I'm not blind!" he griped.

Dean still refused, fearing the sedative effects under the circumstances. "Maybe later.." Instead, he turned to Sam. "Sam, you know where my stuff is?"

Sam got up. He knew what Dean needed. "Yeah..hang on." He found their gear, and rummaged through Dean's. He returned with a bottle, and he handed it to his brother.

Dean accepted it with a weary nod of thanks. He held on to it for a moment as his hand shook uncontrollably. It was so heavy, he almost dropped it.

"Here-" David said. He grasped the half-full bottle, and went into the bathroom, returning with a paper-wrapped glass. He unwrapped it and poured it full. "My prescription." he said simply.

Dean took it from him, and downed it. He then saluted his friend. "Good meds, thanks." he said softly.

David smiled wearily. "Consider it an open prescription." he added. "For all of us."

The cheap scotch was raw and strong. They all had at least one too many. And they fell asleep, finally. Each wanted to purge the events from their minds, for a while at least. They needed the separation.

* * *

When the light of morning pierced their consciousness, it was unwelcome and intrusive. It was Sam who awoke first. He sat up, bleary and feeling bruised. He looked over the other two where they lay in the thin, cool light. David was on his back, snoring softly, glasses discarded on the table, grey eyes closed and obscured by his tousled hair. Ellen was always after him to get it cut, but it was his little defiance. Hen-pecked men took their victories where they could.

And Dean was on his side, fetally tight and shivering, his wounded arms pulled close to his body. Sam pulled the blanket back over his shoulders, then took his chances and reached out and touched his forehead. It was hot, and damp with sweat. He got up then, unhappily accustomed to this. He pulled out the courtesy coffee-maker, and he filled it with water and added the packet of cheap, coarse grounds. When it was well under way, he turned back to his brother.

"Dean..?" he prodded softly.

"hmm?"

"You ok? You feel kinda hot."

Dean swallowed dryly. "A little.." he acknowledged. "It's ok."

Sam sighed. He patted Dean's shoulder slightly, almost for his own reassurance. He turned back to the coffee-maker, waiting impatiently for it to complete its cycle. When it beeped, he sought out some mugs from the small cupboard and poured. The scent of it roused David, and Sam handed him some steaming solace. He nodded toward his brother and said quietly, "He's running hot, David."

David glanced over. He watched Dean as he lay, still curled beneath the blankets. He took the mug meant for Dean and sat at his bedside. "Hey...Got a coffee here for you, good and hot.."

Dean opened his eyes and shook his head. "Thanks, maybe later. I'd take some cold water, though."

Dean lived on coffee. It was significant that he would refuse it. David set it aside and felt his forehead.

"Get lost." Dean growled.

David ignored his surly demand, and he took his wrist and felt his pulse. He wasn't pleased by what he saw. He decided something was in order to combat any rising infection. Dean's near exsanguination had robbed him of the ability to fight infection, and his burns had been exposed to rough treatment, and the result was predictable. "Well.." he said, "Short of sticking a thermometer in your yap, I'd say you're running a fever. We'd better nip this in the bud." He got up and searched his bag for the appropriate pills, and he handed two of them to Dean.

"Are these going to slow me up or anything? I can't afford it, not with him coming out tonight."

"Just take them." David sighed. "They're just antibiotics. And you'd better let me have a look at you. If you expect to be in any state to deal with things later, you have to let me make sure we keep everything under control."

He knew David was right. Despite their new location, he knew Paul would have little trouble finding them. They were all tense about the next appearance of the vampire, and it was Dean's responsibility to stay as healthy as he could in preparation. He couldn't bear it if either of them were compromised through his own weakness. Iris was already dead because of it... He leaned back and let David unwrap his arms first.

David frowned as he examined him. The right arm in particular was reddened and swollen. Dean flinched and swore at his gentle touch. David checked the burn on his stomach next, but it was in an acceptable state, considering. He cleaned and rewrapped all three, and noted Dean's sweaty pallor as he finished.

"So?" Dean grunted. "Need your bone saw yet?"

"Not so far." David assured. He stood then, stretched, and stifled a yawn. "But I think we all need some breakfast, I know I sure do. I'm going to stick my head under the tap and then maybe go out to get something for us all. Figure out anything else you need while I'm in the can, ok?" He made his way to the tiny bathroom and shut the door.

Sam watched from the corner of his eye as the doc left, and Dean visibly sank back into the stack of pillows behind him and shut his eyes. He hated seeing it, and he silently railed against their circumstance. Dean needed days, maybe weeks, to recover from the ordeal he'd experienced. Instead, he was feigning strength because the damned drama wasn't yet finished. Paul would return tonight, and he would demand Dean's utmost effort to hunt down and kill Johan. And Dean was so deeply consumed by guilt over the whole thing. Sam knew he would stop at nothing to pay what he felt was his debt. _Well.. _he vowed. _Not on my watch_. He couldn't stop the vampire from coming, but he could sure as hell step in and take Dean's place if things got tricky. He'd done as much for Sam on countless occasions.

* * *

David left on his quest. When he was gone, Sam reheated Dean's coffee and took the opportunity to try to sound him out about it all. He sat down, and cleared his throat.

"Aw great, here we go." Dean growled irritably.

"Don't do that, Dean! Just listen to me for a minute.."

Dean took the cup. "Fine, Dr. Feelgood. Go ahead; ask me how I'm doing."

Sam sighed. "I'm not going to do that; all I'd get is bullshit anyway, as usual. I just want you to know that Iris's death wasn't your fault. I know right now you don't believe me, but it was something that just happened. She targeted you, remember? She set this thing in motion, and it spiralled out of her control. We tried to stop it, Dean. None of us counted on something like Johan."

Dean frowned, his expression pained and bitter. "Are you done? 'Cause you got it wrong, Sam. Iris didn't start this, _I_ did. I killed her brother. And now she's dead too, and I'm still breathing. Does that sound like justice to you?!"

"Dean-"

"Just leave me alone, Sam. I'm tired. I don't want to rehash this crap right now just so you can feel all warm and fuzzy!"

Sam relented. He didn't take his brother's harshness to heart, he'd expected as much. He got up and took advantage of the bathroom being free, and soon Dean heard the shower start. Dean pushed the mug away, the smell of the coffee was turning his stomach. He pulled the thin blanket over his ears, feeling both hot and cold. He was bone-achingly tired. He wished Sam hadn't brought it up. His eyes pricked, and he rubbed at them angrily. He couldn't get the image out of his head...he had her moving, they were almost at the door. A few minutes more, and the outcome might have been a happier one. He swore bitterly. He felt like shit, more than he cared to admit. Whatever Paul had planned for him tonight, he hardly felt up to it. He hoped the bastard came up with some brilliant revelation during his beauty sleep, because they had squat otherwise. He just wanted this thing to be over.

* * *

David returned with a wealth of healthy food, and an armload of six-packs. He didn't have the stomach for grease-laden fast food at that time, opting instead for meals that he could heat in the microwave. He set about making something filling and hot, and when it was ready, he made sure his patient ate something, which was a battle. He didn't like how Dean looked, but he knew he couldn't do much about it until the whole thing was resolved. He called Ellen once, needing a little comfort and reassurance, but it wasn't her strong suit. He spent some time talking quietly with Sam while Dean slept. It didn't ease his worry. He was terrified of the coming night. He'd been witness to Paul's parting words, and he didn't know what to expect, but he was sure it would be a trial. He just hoped they all survived it.

* * *

They spent the last precious daylight hours nervously. Poker cost David the usual small fortune. The television offered an hour or two of mindless distraction. Sam buried himself in his computer. And Dean slept fitfully. The down-time was sorely needed, it afforded him a brief chance to regenerate a little. Sam and David, knowing they would be awake all night, tried to catch some shut-eye as well. They had varying degrees of success. When the sun finally disappeared below the treed horizon, David took a deep breath and thought out loud. "I guess we'll be on soon.."

Sam was standing at the window, peering out into the gathering darkness. He turned, and nodded. He saw David's fear. And he knew that the doc could be counted on regardless. He wanted to put him at ease, tell him it would all be fine in the end. But he couldn't, and David would see right through it if he tried. "Yeah..." he said. "We ought to see Paul pretty soon. I hope he has some sort of plan or something, otherwise I don't know what the hell he expects from us. Christ, Johan must be long gone by now."

They woke Dean. He was silent and sullen until he'd had a good strong coffee. But once infused, he gathered himself to play his role. He noted the time, and sat up carefully. "Any word, or anything yet?"

Sam shook his head. "Not yet. But it's only been a few-"

His words were interrupted by a knock at the door. The trio exchanged glances, and Sam opened it. The manager stood there, smiling. "Hi there, gentlemen. I got a call from a friend of yours; said his name was Paul. He asked me to give you this message." He handed over a slip of paper. Sam stared at it, and thanked him. When he was gone, he fielded their question.

"Looks like GPS coordinates. Our vamp's gone high-tech. All it says is go to this place, and his name."

"How the hell did he know where we are?" Dean wondered pointlessly. He'd half hoped that their change of location might have afforded a reprieve, but he wasn't surprised that it hadn't.

David reached for the note. "I have a unit in the rental. I can punch it in, it should show us the way."

It was a bit of a relief that it hadn't been Paul himself. "So we have the where at least..." Dean mused. "I guess we'll get the why when we get there, wherever the hell it is. Pack up, we might as well get this over with."

* * *

They followed David, who negotiated the directions dictated by the GPS, and arrived at the place. They parked at the edge of a field, and the three got out, scanning the moonlit terrain with wary scrutiny. It looked like some sort of old homestead, long abandoned. A cluster of foundations sat on the crest of a gentle rise, surrounded by an overgrowth of lilac and honeysuckle. They caught a twinkle of dim light. Dean looked to the doc for some assurance that it was right.

"This is where he wants to meet.." he confirmed. A rusted farm-gate was ajar, and Sam pushed it wider and motioned the others to follow. The new spring growth was already dewy with the night's drop in temperature; spider webs caught silvery droplets all throughout the grasses. A path was disturbed through the soft fresh pasture, defined by recent footsteps. It led to the lilacs, and they found him there.

Paul sat on the ground, his back against an ancient and twisted lilac trunk. He'd brought a kerosene lantern; it hissed where it hung in the branches. In front of him; painstakingly chopped out of the stony and root-choked ground, was an apparent grave. As they approached, the vampire raised his head and nodded a silent greeting. They stood at the edge of the hole, across from him. A cloth-wrapped body lay at the bottom. _Iris._ There was no earth covering her shroud yet. A handful of purple flowers was scattered on top of her. Slight plumes of mist rose from the fresh, damp soil. The air was heavy with the fragrant perfume of the lilacs, at the peak of their flowering. It was strong; almost sickeningly sweet, like apples that fermented on the ground after falling from the branch, overripe and verging on spoiling. Soon the florets would turn brown, their scent would fade, and the bushes would spend the rest of the season blended with the rest of the unremarkable greenery.

Silence reigned for a while. No one knew quite what to say.

Paul finally spoke. His voice was flat and tired, and he stared down into the darkness of the pit in front of them. "I couldn't cover her." he said. He raised his head and looked through them, staring at some distant place. "The ground is so...damp, and black. It stinks of decay. She would have hated it."

Dean leaned heavily against his brother. He knew he had a short window in which he would be useful, he could already feel himself tiring. The dismal scene was suffocating; he had to move on. "You left the note, and now we're here. What do you want me to do now?"

Paul turned his eyes to rest on Dean. He stared at him for a moment before answering. "You owe me a dead vampire."

Sam answered before Dean could, his impatience rising. "We already know that. Where is he? Have you located Johan?"

Paul frowned at him, but said nothing. He held something in his fingers, it flashed and caught the moonlight as he played with it absently. Silver. It was Iris's bracelet. He turned back to Dean, and spoke in a dull and dejected tone. "Johan..." he sighed. "Johan is wherever he wants to be. He is three steps ahead of me, a hundred ahead of such as you. We will never find him. He will go on for another eternity, despite us all. He'll torture and kill, and he will grow ever stronger, laughing at us all the while. None of us; not you, not me, nor those who come long after, will ever stop him."

The finality of his statement left them confused and uneasy. "Then why did you bring me here?" Dean asked. "If you think hunting Johan is pointless, then what _do_ you want?"

Paul answered after a time. "You owe me a dead vampire." he repeated quietly.

Dean rubbed his eyes. "So you said. And then you told us it was impossible."

Paul was frustratingly slow to speak. When he did answer, it was not what they'd expected.

"Not Johan. Me. I want you to kill _me_."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11 

"W..what..?" Dean stammered.

"I'm tired, hunter. I'm tired of this filthy aberration of life. I never asked for it." Paul said. He sighed, and played with the bracelet for a moment before continuing. "I want it to be over."

Dean was at a loss for words. So were the others. It was not the way they'd foreseen the night play out. When he found his voice, Dean shook his head in dismay. "Jesus, Paul...don't ask that of me, please!"

"I tried to do it myself.." Paul continued miserably. "I laid her in the ground and I crawled in beside her. I vowed to see the sunrise with her, at last. But as soon as it touched the horizon, and the night began to burn away, this thing within me rose up and refused. It bucked and kicked inside me, no matter how hard I tried to resist. I left her and fled to the darkness, even as I longed for death. This curse within me, it won't allow it. It's stronger than my will. So I need you."

Dean stared from Paul to the open grave. He wanted to clear his debt with the vampire. He wanted even more to be released from his guilt over Iris and her brother. But not like this...nothing about this felt right. "I...I don't think I can do that." he said quietly.

Sam glanced at him. He understood why Dean would refuse, but he knew Paul's nature, and he tensed, expecting anything. He shot a warning look to David, who took a step back.

Paul stood up slowly. Standing at full height, he was an imposing figure. The others stood warily, fully cognizant of the threat he represented. He tossed his head slightly to clear the waves of red hair from his eyes. It was a casual gesture, but he seethed with a tightly wound intensity. The grave separated him from the others, and he moved toward them, but stopped, poised at the edge of the dark, open space. He exuded the electric energy of a big cat, motionless and staring, as it's prey suddenly stopped still in front of it.

The Winchesters had the same kinetic energy; both brothers staring with unwavering gaze, poised to leap, either to defend or to flee, depending on the wisdom of the moment.

Each sensed the other's hair trigger potential to spring. Dean stood, slightly bent; eyes wild and taking in all views, his hands hovering slightly away from his body. Sam stared hard at Paul, every muscle drawn as tight as sinew, and ready to release in explosive energy. David, for his part, was keenly aware of the tension of his companions, and he froze, as much in fear as to stay clear of their intentions.

Paul stared back at them for long minutes. He broke his gaze away then. He began to laugh, quietly at first, then louder. The others looked at each other in alarm, not knowing how to react. Paul continued to chuckle to himself, and his demeanor seemed to relax.

Dean did not respond in kind. "What's so damned funny?!" he demanded.

Paul sat down again, at the edge of the grave. He dangled a foot into the shadowed depth. "You. Me. This whole ridiculous little drama. From on high, it means absolutely nothing, doesn't it..? Mighty God and his angels toy with their playthings." He rubbed away the tears that had begun to collect on his pale lashes, still laughing to himself.

They weren't sure what to make of his sudden about-face. His humour seemed grossly misplaced, and none of them relaxed. He looked like he was losing his mind.

"You want to fill us in on the funny part? 'Cause I'm not seeing it!" Dean growled.

Paul ignored him, for a moment. He stared up at the stars, seemingly mesmerized by the wide expanse overhead. Then he turned back to Dean. The smile faded from his mouth and his eyes grew hard. "I gave you a great opportunity here..." he said. "I'm not blind, hunter...nor am I stupid. I see the remorse in your face. I see the pain. Regret, discomfort, confusion... We both know the only way to relieve these things. I know how to absolve you, and I am giving you the means. But still you refuse this. Why? Because it is something difficult, something unpleasant that is required of you? Did you think you could earn your absolution easily? You brought all this into being, Dean Winchester. You laid waste to the lives of Conrad and his sister. You robbed the world of a good man, whether he was turned or not. And for no other reason than the fact that you were confused and angry and vicious that day. Well, you got your release then, didn't you? But what was the cost? Conrad...Iris...Lenore. Me. I hauled you back from the brink of Johan's hell. I expected some fealty for that...but you give me nothing. You don't find this humorous?" He stopped and leaned down to peer into the grave. "How about you, Iris? Are you laughing?" he asked.

Iris remained silent, and he turned to look at them again. His eyes held the poison of a man who hated the world and himself even more.. "Well...maybe you are right, all of you. Maybe there is no lightness, perhaps there is nothing here but betrayal and misery after all." He snorted, and focused hard on Dean. "One last chance, hunter, for your precious redemption. If you want to clear your heavy conscience, then here, take this-" He pulled a lengthy old blade from his coat, and tossed it handle-first to Dean where he stood. Sam reached forward and caught it, and handed it to his brother.

"You won't find any sharper." Paul said. "I gained it thirty years ago, from a sinner who appreciated good steel. I trust you know how to use it."

Dean stared at the blade. He was no expert, but he knew enough. It was truly old, Japanese as far as he could tell. It was well worn through use; the handle evidence of the grip of many skilled users before either of them. It bore faint engravings, now indecipherable to all but it's maker. Balanced perfectly, it had an ugly beauty. His eyes turned up to Paul in mute question.

"Think of it as a gift, just as my demand is. But I swear to you; it will be a curse, if you don't do what I ask. Take it, and use it as you were taught!" Paul pulled his feet out of the grave then, and he got up and knelt at its edge, his head held over the open pit. He turned and spoke to Dean, his voice harsh. "You know what you owe me. Now do it!"

* * *

Dean's mouth had gone dry. He stared at the blade, turning it until its blue-grey steel reflected the moonlight. He stepped around the grave like an automaton, gripping the handle loosely in his nerveless hand. Nothing about this felt right. The irony of that was like acid in his heart. He'd killed dozens of vampires without a qualm, but to do so now was a thing that seemed so abhorrently unjust, that he could barely clasp his fingers around the weapon. He stopped where Paul knelt on the ground. As he drew close, the vampire closed his eyes in expectation.

"This isn't right.." Dean said softly.

Paul's eyes flew open. "Do it!" he hissed, turning up to see him. "Give me what you owe, damn you!"

Dean gripped the blade with both hands. He raised his arms, and stood poised to bring it down across the vampire's pale neck. His vision crowded with a convoluted dance of images; Iris, her pretty laughter in the bar...the sawblade that spewed gore as it bit through Conrad's spine... a circle of pale, sniggering creatures hovering as Johan burned him until he screamed. And then deliverance... Iris backing away in refusal to harm him further, and Paul, cutting him loose and absurdly fighting for a hunter's life.

"No." he croaked. The blade slipped from his hands. "No!"

The result of his reticence was so swift that none of them, not even seasoned hunters, could react. Paul howled a blood-curdling curse, and he turned and lashed out in fury at Dean, a powerful blow that caught his temple and sent him rolling. The vampire leapt across the void. His hands found Sam's neck, and gripped so hard and fast that the young man fell back, unable even to choke out an alarm as Paul's weight crushed him to the ground. Enraged, the vampire bit his throat hard, and blood burst through his torn skin and bubbled over Paul's mouth and chin as Sam struggled in terror beneath him. He was unmatched, despite his height and youth. Paul was athleticaly built, and his strength was magnified by his unearthy nature. Holding him tightly, he siphoned off such a copious volume of blood that Sam was instantly rendered powerless.

Dean shook away the fog. He tried to rise to his feet, but he succeeded only in getting to hands and knees. "Don't!" he gasped. "Let him go, you sonofabitch!"

Paul gripped Sam's hair tightly and drove a knee down onto his belly, pulling his head awkwardly back to a near-impossible angle. He turned his blood-smeared face and snarled, "Do it, you selfish bastard! I swear to god I will break his neck, you hear me?!" He pulled back harder to make his point, and Sam gasped in pained protest. "Pay me your debt! NOW!"

Stunned and gasping, Dean flailed a hand through the wet grass until his fingers curled around the handle. Blood streamed from his split temple into his eyes, and he staggered to his feet. But he was already weakened, and the blow he'd received was a final straw. He fell back to his knees, the world a sickening blur, and the sword slid out of his hands.

Sam uttered a strangled scream as Paul yanked his head back so viciously that he could hear his vertebrae crack. The vampire was a horror to observe, teeth bared fully, eyes wild and red with fury, his contorted face a mask of blood. "DO IT!" he shrieked at Dean.

Dean tried. Disoriented, he crawled for a moment, hands scrabbling desperately for the feel of the knife that he could no longer see or hope to lift. As the darkness deepened in his vision, his fingers found it. He curled them around it and pulled it closer, but the handle was suddenly torn from his grasp.

Aroused from his terrified stupor, David leaped forward and gripped it in his shaking, sweaty hands. He scrambled from where Dean sprawled, and reached the raging vampire's side. He struck Paul hard with the blunt side, and the vampire loosened his grip, spinning toward his assailant. Sam rolled away, and Paul rose up and stood still for a moment. He met David's frightened gaze...and for a fragment of a second, his expression softened. Then he gathered himself, and lunged, roaring a howl like nothing on earth. David raised his hands. He swung in an awkward roundhouse arc and brought the blade down against Paul's neck. The well-honed steel sliced effortlessly through skin and muscle, tendon and bone. By the time the doctor dropped the knife, Paul's head lay severed from his body. It fell with a dull thud into the grass, followed immediately by the twitching body to which it had belonged.

David dropped to his knees in shock. He tore his eyes away from the bloody spectacle, long enough to see both brothers stirring. He turned back to stare at the horror he'd done, then fell to his hands and retched until he collapsed in exhaustion.

* * *

When Dean came to, he sat up and surveyed the scene. Paul lay sprawled silently in the grass. Most of him, anyway...his head was a few feet away, staring wide-eyed; a fathomless expression frozen on his pale, blood-spattered features. The bloodied blade lay abandoned in the grass. And David, thank god, was alive. He pieced together the final seconds that eluded him as he passed out. Paul, demanding his hand in his own death, and when he refused, he'd gone after Sam...

"Hey!...hey David!" Dean crawled over to where the doc sat. David was sitting cross-legged on the wet grass, rocking slightly. His head was dropped into his hands. He raised it at being nudged.

"Dean." he said quietly. Even in the poor light, Dean could see the horror etched on the doctor's gentle features.

"Yeah, it's me, doc. Are you ok? I mean, did he hurt you, or anything?" Dean knelt beside him, steadying himself with a hand on his friend's shoulder. "C'mon, man; talk to me! What the hell happened?!"

David stared at Dean for a moment. He rubbed his eyes hard, trying unsuccessfully to expunge what he'd witnessed. "I..I killed him. I didn't want to, but... Jesus christ, I took his head off like it was nothing!" He turned toward the place where Paul lay, staring at the dark patch of blood on the grass. "He was after Sam.." he mumbled. "He was going to... I didn't even feel the cut! I hit him, but he wouldn't stop, and he had a face like..."

Dean shook him. "David! You had to do it, ok?! Listen to me, I need you here now!"

The image of his Dean's blood-streaked face brought him into the present. He shook his head and groaned. "Dean...jesus, you're bleeding again!" He got to his feet, and Dean pulled himself up along with him.

Dean nodded. "He slugged me pretty damned hard. I don't know if he really meant to, considering."

The two of them steadied themselves against each other for a moment or two. Sam was stirring in the place that he'd crawled, and he sat up a few metres away. He called over when he recognized what he was seeing. "Dean! David; you ok?" he said hoarsely, blinking in the darkness.

"Yeah..." Dean gave David a quick once-over, and satisfied, he staggered over to where his brother was already rising. "Sam, don't get up...let me see"

Sam was already on his knees. "It's alright, Dean, I'm still breathing." He held a hand to his throat, wincing. "Sonofabitch is efficient, that's for damned sure! I felt like he siphoned ten years out of me in two freaking seconds.." He remembered more then. "Shit, Dean, what about you? You're pretty messed up, and David-"

Dean cut him off. "Never mind. Looks like David saved our asses. Paul's dead. If you're ok to get up, we've got some things to attend to." He nodded toward the body lying close by, and the grave.

Sam was groggy and weak, but he understood. They never left these things unfinished. Messes always needed tidying. "Is David ok? I mean, with.."

"Later." Dean said gruffly. They would have to deal with the sum of all this later. Right now there were bodies to bury, evidence to hide. The two rejoined David, and they took a breather before tackling the laborious shovelling. David was catatonic. He stared at his hands, unable to believe they were his when they'd severed a man's head from his body. It took Dean's sharp words to snap him out of it. "David! Did you hear me?! We need you!"

"Right..." the doc nodded. He got back to his feet and drew a shaky breath. He moved to check Dean's bloodied temple, but Dean shrugged him away.

"Not now. We need to bury these two, David. This has to go away before we can leave." He turned toward the grave, and stumbled, dropping to his knees with a mumbled curse.

David witnessed it, and it galvanized him to action. He pushed Dean back down, forcing him to sit. "Stay there. Between all of us, I'm the only one not likely to pass out and fall into that hole while we're filling it." He scanned around, locating Paul's shovel. Then he turned to where the vampire's remains lay. He didn't want to see it again, and his voice grew quiet. "How should I...?"

Sam stepped in. "I got it, David. Give me a minute." He went over and grasped Paul's cold wrists, dragging the heavy weight of his body slowly, and resting at the grave edge. When he stopped seeing stars, he rolled it in with his foot. He returned for the head, and having no choice he picked it up by a handful of wavy red hair. He dropped it into the dark pit to rejoin the rest of him, and Iris.

David was grateful. Sam had picked up the shovel, but the doc relieved him of it. "Sit with your brother, Sam. If you did fall in I could hardly pull you out." He turned and began to transfer the loose mound of dirt back into the hole, carefully avoiding any view of the bodies that lay in an eternal embrace below.

Sam did as he was asked. He was hearing a telltale hiss, and feeling faint. He dropped beside Dean, and they watched as David threw himself into his grim task. Neither spoke for some time. Dean stared into the darkness, turning a shining object around in his fingers. It tinkled softly as the silver charms moved. Sam remembered that sound. Iris's bracelet. It was the key that led him to finding Dean.

"You know we had no choice.." he said quietly.

Dean didn't turn. He said nothing at first, but nodded finally. "I know." It was all they spoke about it.

Sam sighed unhappily. He vowed they would talk about it more, when they were better able to. He called over to David, who was making strides at reducing the pile of earth. "Need a break?"

David paused, sweat streaming. "No. I'll finish it. Don't get up." It was cathartic to labour in this way, and he needed it. After some time, he had levelled the pile, and he tamped the mound over the grave with his feet, panting with exertion. Satisfied, he rejoined the brothers. "Should I pull some stuff over it or something.?"

"I'll do it." Sam got up slowly. He had the experience to mask the grave, and he dragged some suitable cover over the fresh dirt; brush, leaves, and several stones, and when the surface matched the surroundings again, he gathered up anything that was brought there, and came back. "We should hit the road now. Less chance of being seen while its still dark. And I don't know about you, but I could use a bed about now."

They snuffed the lantern and let their eyes adjust to the darkness, and when they could see enough with the moonlight, they made their way back across the pasture to the cars. David had supported Dean for the last several yards, he'd fallen several times and had accepted it without argument when the doc took his arm and hooked it over his own shoulder. At the Impala's dusty side, he could barely stand, and he leaned against it heavily. Sam relieved him of the keys and opened the doors.

"Can you drive, Sam?" David asked. Sam nodded, and helped his brother in. "Go ahead, David, I'll follow you." David got behind the wheel of the rental and they turned around and headed back to their most recent sanctuary.

* * *

As Sam focused his tired eyes on the car ahead, he listened to Dean, who shifted and sighed in obvious discomfort. More than once he glanced at him, but Dean kept his eyes closed, slumped low and pressing his head back against the seat. Sam didn't bother to ask how he was doing. The answer was always the same. He decided to stay quiet as he drove, and when the welcome sight of their latest accommodation rewarded him, he pulled in beside David and shut her down.

"Dean...are you awake?"

"Uh huh."

"We're here. Hang on, we'll carry you in." Sam went around to the passenger side but Dean had already opened the door and pulled himself to his feet.

"Look after yourself. I don't need to be coddled, alright?!" he growled. Sam sighed at the familiar exchange, and left him to his own devices. When Dean had successfully made his way into the cabin, Sam turned to shut the heavy car door. He frowned as he did so; noting that some idiot had written something in the dust. He decided to clean it off later, before Dean could see it, and he followed the others into the clean, bright room. He felt a rush of relief when all three of them were safely behind the locked door. To a man they sprawled on their beds, and lay in silence. No one wanted to breathe fresh life into what was over for now, and words were few.

Sam stripped off his dirty clothing, and headed for a shower. He returned dressed in sweats, and sat down on the edge of the bed to pour himself a healthy double of whisky. David accepted his offer to pour one for him, and he gulped it down inelegantly and held his glass out for a second. Sam obliged. Dean pulled himself up enough to take the bottle as it was handed to him, and he swallowed several mouthfuls, stopping to breathe, and to savour the caustic heat as it warmed his throat. He put the bottle down and lay back again. He was filthy, and caked with blood, but he didn't care. He made the effort to kick off his shoes, but it was all he could manage. David was covered in dirt himself after his grave filling duties. He wanted to attend his patient but he had to clean up himself first. He took the next shift in the shower.

* * *

Alone, Sam took the opportunity to question Dean. He sat up on the cot and turned to where he lay with an arm thrown over his eyes. "Dean...you ok?"

Dean ignored him. He hiked up his shirt and plucked at the sticky bandages wrapping his middle, cursing quietly. The burn there throbbed sharply, and he felt claustrophobic and overheated. He tried to find the beginning of the gauze strip so that he could unwind it but it eluded him, and he abandoned the effort, grasping the bottle again instead. This time it went down the wrong way, and he dropped it, gasping and coughing. Sam reached down and righted it, but not before it emptied on to the carpet. He tried to help Dean sit a little higher so that he could catch his breath but he shoved him away roughly.

"Come on, Dean; just let me-"

"Leave me alone for christs sake!" Dean wheezed. His eyes were still streaming, and he turned away and lay on his side. "Just give me some f~cking space for once!"

Sam sat back down. He knew he couldn't do anything for Dean until he was ready to let him, and it was clear that his support now was unwelcome, physical, or emotional. If he pressed the issue he was liable to get clocked. There was one way he could ease him though. He got up and went back out to the car in search of a fresh bottle of whatever Dean had stashed in the trunk.

* * *

Outside, the quiet was a balm to his frayed nerves. An insect chirped somewhere in the grass, unconcerned with Sam's presence, and the breeze that brushed his hair back from his face was gentle. He could smell the pine sap from a group of evergreens growing at the edge of the gravel, and it was fresh and soothing. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, then popped the trunk to retrieve what he sought. Bottle in hand, he shut it, and headed back. But he remembered the irritation of the writing on the car. Dean would be furious at the affront to the Impala, and he went back to remove it. He stood alongside the car, reading.

It wasn't the usual "Wash Me". He peered at it harder, wishing he had more than the thin light that shone through the window. It looked like gibberish, none of it was recognizable english. He read it through again but he couldn't make anything of it. "_Ik zal uw bloed gemorst op mijn gemak. Goed slapen_. He took a pen from his pocket and wrote the strange words down carefully on his palm. Then he wiped the message off the car and headed back in.

* * *

David was tending Dean. It was different with the doc; Dean would usually let him do his thing while he steadfastly rejected any of his brother's efforts. It was a professional thing, and Dean respected David for what he brought to the table. David had exposed the burns and was carefully cleaning them now. Sam grimaced at the sight of the raw and angry flesh, fervently hoping his ministrations would speed the healing. He chose not to interrupt, and he silently placed the full bottle at Dean's bedside. Sweating with pain, Dean glanced up at him and nodded gratefully. Sam returned the gesture and rooted out his laptop from beneath the cot. He settled down with it and waited impatiently for it to boot up. He was filled with a deep unease. The message on the car was no random nonsense, he was sure. It was deliberately done in a foreign language, a fact that had ominous meaning. He silently urged the machine to hurry the hell up, and when it accommodated him, he went straight to Google Translate.

He could guess who had been the author. Paul had spoken of Johan's past, and the ancient vampire had an accent that was of some european origin. His guts tightened as he typed it into the language program. The site recognized it instantly as Dutch, and the translation was chilling. Sam's brief feeling of safety vanished as he read the words. _I'll spill your blood at my leisure. Sleep well._

.._Jesus._ Johan had been there. While the events of the night unfolded on the hill, he'd likely been watching from some hidden place. And he doubtless knew where they were now. The colour drained from Sam's face, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. They were vulnerable now, a beaten and exhausted little band of warriors that had seen more than enough battle for one day. They could never weather another attack, not now.

Dean had been watching him, and he'd seen him blanch. He pushed David's hand aside and sat up. "What is it, Sam?!"


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Sam was loathe to shatter their brief and well-earned peace, but reality was hard to ignore. He swallowed drily and answered. "I don't think we're alone here. And I don't think we were alone at the hill."

"What do you mean?!" Dean demanded, instantly alert.

There was no way to gentle the news. "I saw something written, on the side of the car..in the dust. It was a message from Johan."

The news stunned them. David was struck dumb, still reeling from the night. Dean blinked hard and demanded, "How do you know it was him?!"

"Because of how it was done. He wrote it in his own language, Dutch, it turns out. I had to go online to translate it."

"Well what the hell was the message?!" Dean sat up and leaned forward, tense and concerned. He glanced quickly at the door to be sure it was locked.

Sam scanned the translation. "uh..well, it came out as 'I'll spill your blood at my leisure.' He ended it with 'sleep well'."

Dean took a second to absorb that. Still shirtless, and suffering from his abrupt movement, he steadied himself with a tight grip on the bed edge and rubbed his eyes. "He wrote it on the Impala?"

"Yeah. In the dust."

He swore at the thought. For a moment, he was concerned with the mundane issue of his precious car's paint, but he quickly saw beyond it. "You think it was when we were with Paul?!"

"I'm guessing. There wasn't really time when we got here. I don't know if he followed us out."

Dean stood up, swearing a bitter litany. He began to pace, or at least try to.. "Sonofabitch! I can't believe we don't get one god-damned day to recoup! Fucking blood-suckers! We should have made sure he was dead the first time! I should have-!" He stopped, and thought out loud. "We've gotta get out of here, we're sitting ducks right now. It's dark out-he could bust in any time. Bastard might even move by day, from what we saw!"

He was weaving on his feet, working himself up to a froth. David pushed his icy fear away and put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Listen to me, Dean! You're about to drop and you know it! Settle down and let me finish with you or you'll end up a liability, when and if the shit hits the fan!"

Dean stared at him for a moment, and relented, dropping back onto the bed. David may have been deeply affected by the happenings of the past several days, but he was a surgeon, and used to clear thinking under pressure. His character and training held him in good stead now. He spoke as he resumed dealing with Dean's wounds. "Dean's right-we can't stay here. He knows this place, and that door is pretty much cardboard. So we'll do this: I'll ditch the rental at the nearest Avis location, and we'll all drive Dean's car to Georgia. Both of you need attention that I just can't supply on the road-I need to restock at the hospital. Maybe we can lose him that way, I don't know. But at least we can hole up and heal in real safety."

Sam was pleased to hear him step up in this strong way. And his logic was sound, any of the motels they used were mostly shabby wrecks that were woefully insecure. He felt like death warmed-over himself, and he knew that Dean was on his feet through adrenalin alone. He turned to his brother. "It makes sense to me, Dean. What do you want to do?"

Dean snorted, holding his throbbing head in his hand as David wound fresh gauze around his torso. "What I want is to stake that SOB to a freaking tree and watch him roast at sun-up. But yeah, we have to get out of here, and now. David's place is better than anything I can think of right now." He lay back down on the bed, sighing with heavy weariness. "Christ; a break would be appreciated every now and then."

That sentiment was shared by all. David got up and began gathering their things, and Sam joined him. In no time they had emptied the room and packed it into the Impala. It was a ritual that had lost its charm. David was in a quandary about the rental; he was trying to think in a manner that fit the situation, and he knew it was risky to leave it there at the motel where someone could vandalize it, or steal it. But it was adding danger if they had to detour to get rid of it properly. He wasn't in his normal Dr. Bowman world right now, he was in a more desperate place. Dean read his mind as he stood staring at it.

"We'll pull a battery cable, David. You can call them and say it broke down, you got another ride and that they need to pick it up."

David nodded, glad to solve at least one problem.

* * *

The drive would be a long and tiring fourteen hours. They stopped only for quick take-out food and bathroom breaks, and the necessary gas fill-ups. Despite his hatred of sitting in the back seat, Dean didn't argue when they suggested he settle there. He was unnaturally tired thanks to his rough treatment at the hands of both vampires. And he didn't want to talk to anyone, and the back seat suited his antisocial mood just fine. He slept for short periods, waking frequently when his subconscious paranoia interrupted. When he was awake, he was irritable, cramped and hot. He offered only short, curt answers when either Sam or David spoke, and he scanned out the rear window obsessively, until he couldn't see straight anymore. But it seemed they weren't followed.

Sam took the wheel when David was in need of a break, but his stamina was limited. His rough interaction with Paul had left him tired and sore, and David had patched him up after attending to Dean, but it still left lingering effects. It took a lot of convincing for the Doc to relinquish the wheel. David cat-napped for no more than a half hour at a time, but it kept him going. He was so full of bad coffee that he vowed he'd never look at another cup once they got home. But the drive provided an opportunity for the two of them to talk, and Sam helped David untangle some of his emotions over what had happened. They were careful to make sure Dean was asleep, because both knew that the elder hunter had some sharply defined feelings in this particular case. David had many questions. He had earlier been fired up with a sympathetic urge to cure the illness, or disease, or what ever it was that afflicted people like Paul. He still felt it, but it was tempered now with a fearful caution. He'd never witnessed anything like what he saw when Paul had Sam in his grasp. He shuddered to remember.

"So that was how they really look..when they feed?"

Sam nodded. "David, what you saw was the nature of the beast. Dean and me, and my dad, and every hunter I know, has had to kill these things. They show their nature pretty clearly. Vampires kill to survive, like a lot of creatures. But what sets them apart is that they like killing. It fills a need, a lust, sort of. Most of them embrace their new form, because it's all about power. People are weak, most of them would leap at an opportunity to climb to the top of the heap. When they get turned, the majority embrace their state with such enthusiasm that they become god-like in their own minds. They have the power over death, and that is an intoxicating thing. They can pick and choose who dies as a squealing meal in their grip, and who is worthy of joining their ranks. Most of them love the act of killing. Blood is like drug, it doesn't just keep them going, it thrills them to take it. And Johan took it a step further, he was addicted to endorphins, and he tortured to get them. But it was only a short step beyond what they all are."

David listened. "But what about the ones like Paul, and Iris's brother? They seemed to really want to stay as moral as possible, as...human, as they could. How do they fit in? I mean, I only knew Paul briefly, and he did things that I can only describe as admirable...at least, before he..."

"Before he had his teeth in my throat? Yeah, I hear you, David. It's a new thing for us to know that some of them actually try to fight the evil within them. And yeah, I suppose there are a lot of them that never asked for what happened to them, and they might try to resist for a while. But you saw what he turned into, David. When he had me in his hands, when he had a taste of my blood, he went full-on vamp. There was no stopping him at that point."

David nodded silently. He knew that Sam was telling him the truth. But there was another aspect to it. Motive. Paul didn't leap on Sam to satisfy any need he had. David knew his reasons were different. "I understand what you're saying, Sam. Christ, I'll remember that hideous face for the rest of my life, believe me. I know he must have struggled with his urges. But he went to that place planning his own death. He'd forced Dean's hand, and demanded he deliver. He was still capable of love, as far as I could see. He was broken without the girl, and by his own description he was tired of being what he was. And when Dean faltered, he did what he had to, to make sure he reached his goal. I guess he made a mistake or two, like when he hit Dean so hard that he couldn't do what he demanded."

Sam listened now. This perspective was new and valuable, but complicated. He sighed. "It's a cluster f~ck, all around, David. Paul was originally some kind of monk or something. One of God's chosen. But he becomes this being that is rooted in evil, and he has to kill to live, but his motives stay pure. He only kills sinners, by his own description. And he was a loyal friend; he loved a girl that he could never hope to have. He watched over her, and when she needed to do this he stood back and let her, even though he disapproved. And Iris was probably a good person, but she was so screwed up by her brother's death that she pursued an alliance that was brutal and wrong. And Conrad himself was a victim, really. He was turned, against his will, but he chose to be part of a band of rebels who vowed to take only animal blood. And he died anyway, by Dean's hand, for being what he was. And here we are."

David snorted. "Here indeed."

Sam probed further, for David's sake. "David, I know you well enough to know you won't be shaking this off. Anything else you want to talk about..?"

David scratched his hair with one hand, and thought for a moment. "The thing I did... killing him. That was truly horrifying. But I'm a surgeon. I've seen blood, I've seen trauma. I've had people die on my table. I can't lie, it shocks me to think that I took a life by violence, and of how physically easy it was; holy christ that blade was sharp! But I'll get over that. I just needed to hear that I really didn't have any choice. I'm trained to save lives, not take them. I hope that I did the right thing."

Sam had always liked David. He admired him now more than ever. "Well, it saved my ass, so maybe you're asking the wrong man. But I'll say this; Paul chose the way this played out. It may have been Dean that he first picked to do it, but it was happening regardless. David, you have nothing to feel guilty about. You saved me, you saved Dean, a hundred times over. Paul got what he wanted. He brought this into play and I think, in a way, he died happy."

David needed to hear that. He allowed himself to relive the night's events for a moment. Paul had been truly terrifying, but there was a moment there, a brief change. David would have sworn that when Paul let go of Sam and turned toward him, there was a second where he seemed... peaceful. He nodded in silence. After a while, he turned and glanced at Dean as he slept in the back. "And what about Dean. This was brutal from start to finish for him. You think he'll be ok..?"

That was a question that Sam couldn't answer. He turned to assure himself that Dean was not privy to his words. Dean lay on his back, his face covered by a bandaged arm. He had the breathing pattern of someone who was for the moment, far away from the discomfort and pain of the present. He sighed unhappily before he answered.

"I don't know. I mean, with you here, he'll heal up fine. But as for the rest...he's got alot of crap he's carrying. Guilt over Conrad, guilt over Iris. And Paul saved him from Johan, and he had to try to kill him in the end, even though he didn't want to. So now he'll be feeling like he let Paul down too, and us. I got attacked, so he'll take the blame for that on. And you had to do what he couldn't. I just don't know how he'll be after all of that. Dean's a tough sonofabitch, but he holds this shit inside and it eats away at him like poison. He's just like my old man that way. And all I can do is keep trying to get him to let some of it out, while I'm ducking his swings."

David knew what Sam was saying. He'd been with Dean when the hunter was down, injured, sick, raging with fever. Those unhappy times when his walls were down always drew guilt-ridden torments from Dean. The thread that ran through his ramblings was always the same. For a man who was so strong, and who had been pivotal in saving so many lives, his deep-seeded lack of self worth was baffling to David. David had tried to draw it out of him, but had never had any real success. And the moment he was well enough to get a grip on himself, the lid on that pandora's box clamped shut again. His relationship with his father must have been harsh and complicated.. David privately felt the man had alot to answer for regarding his sons, especially his first-born.

"Well.." he sighed. "You and I will just have to do what we can to carry him through this."

"Yeah. But we'll carry him kicking and screaming, I'll guarantee that."

David smiled wearily. "I know." He remembered then, that there was another threat to Dean's welfare, one that put them all in peril. "What about this Johan, Sam? So far it looks like he's not following us, in as much as he's not on my bumper as I speak. ...Do you think he'll give up after a while?"

Sam wished he could assure his friend that the vampire would lose interest, but he knew he wouldn't. "I don't know, David. But frankly I doubt it. We've tried to off him twice now, so I'd say it's personal. I really appreciate you letting us use your place as a safehouse, but as soon as Dean is stronger, we'll get the hell away to keep you out of harm's way."

David's guts tightened in fear. But he knew what he'd signed on for a long time ago. "Well, don't rush it. I won't be the the one pushing you out the door. Your brother will be doing that."

A mumbled complaint came from the back seat. Sam turned to see if Dean was wakeful, and how much he'd heard, but his brother was just sleeping fitfully._ Rest, buddy_. he thought. _Heal up while you can_. _Things are going to get hairy soon enough_...


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

It was with collective relief that they pulled into the driveway. David was behind the wheel. He eased the Impala into the space in front of his garage, and shut her down. The silence after the engine's steady throb was almost like an insulated wall. "Home sweet home." David breathed. He nudged Sam awake. "Hey, Sam. We're here."

Sam stretched and yawned as David exited. He sat up and looked around warily. David was on the front porch, unlocking the door. The afternoon light was softened by heavy cloud cover, it had been raining off and on for the last hour of the trip. No one seemed to note their arrival. As Sam unfolded himself from his seat, he was met by a mid-sized, wire-coated dog, who leapt and danced like a circus poodle as he stood up. He remembered the creature. "Hey Mayhem.." he said, ruffling his ears. Mayhem wagged his entire hind end, beside himself with excitement. He lifted his leg and hosed down Sam's shoes.

David was there instantly, pulling him away and apologizing. Sam was too tired to care particularly. He accepted the roll of paper towel offered by the doc, and snorted a tired laugh as he dried off. David had adopted the dog some time ago, but he was still a work in progress. Probably always would be. Mayhem ran in tight circles on the front lawn as Sam and David emptied the Impala and brought the important contents inside. When all was carried in, they turned to the task of waking Dean.

"Dean..?" Sam tried. He nudged him gently. Dean frowned and groaned and offered something unprintable in response. Sam tried again. "C'mon, Dean...we're here. David's getting the beds ready. You want a hand getting out?"

Dean was about to respond in a predictably sour way when he was suddenly pounced on by the dog. Mayhem had leapt into the back seat and was standing on the floor, licking his face furiously. Dean twisted and turned to avoid the wet tongue, and he managed to push him off finally and he sat up. But even he couldn't stay angry in the face of the dog's unbridled and enthusiastic affection. Mayhem stared with unwavering intensity at Dean, wriggling where he stood, breathlessly awaiting whatever brilliant entertainments he was sure he would offer. Dogs in general were eternal optimists, and this one had blind faith that all of humanity was put there for the sole purpose of play.

David rescued him. He scooped up the squirming dog and carried him in to the house while Sam helped Dean out of the car. Once inside, David steered Dean to a sofa while he and Sam arranged the rooms. Dean lay back against the cushions, relieved at the familiar and comfortable surroundings. David Bowman was a highly educated man, respected in his field and in his community, but he still had a frat-boy's sense of style. More often than not there was a mix of clean and dirty laundry scattered about the livingroom. Reading material covered every surface; magazines, science glossies, medical journals, even a Maxim or two. Saliva-slicked and hairy dog toys rounded it out. It was soul-soothing chaos for Dean Winchester. He could hear the two of them upstairs, his brother and his friend, talking quietly. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, allowing himself to finally feel safe.

* * *

David's home lived up to its billing. The brothers spent a long time sleeping peacefully, while David tidied up, got payment over to his long-suffering dog sitter, and spent a good deal of time restocking his woefully depleted kitchen and collecting supplies from his work. By the time Sam was up, David was ready to offer them the sustenance and medical help they needed. Sam was pretty much on the mend and required little else than a prodigious amount of healthy feed. Dean's status was a little more complicated, and David kept him on an IV for the better part of a week, ensuring that he replaced what had been taken from Dean through his altercations with the vampires, and keeping his wounds from becoming septic. He hid sleep aids in the meds he gave him, and they did the trick. Dean would have been hovering by the drawn curtains, fretting over every shadow and every sound if he hadn't done it.

And Sam was vigilant enough for the both of them. Days passed without any hint of threat. David was required at his hospital, but Sam reported to him regularly. And Johan seemed content to remain behind. They'd either shaken him off or he'd lost interest. As unlikely as either scenario was, reality showed no hint of the vampire.

Unfortunately, Johan would have been the easier challenge. In the days that followed, Dean slept a great deal as he healed. But when he was awake, he was agitated. Surly was a better description. Both David and Sam tried over and over to get him to talk, because it was more than obvious that he had some weighty burden on his mind. He rebuffed their efforts consistently, remaining closed and confined within his own prison of unresolved emotion. It made him an unpleasant companion at best. And at worst, Sam had to curb the urge to throttle him.

After dealing with him throughout a particularly difficult morning, Sam finally had enough. "Dean, You're obviously on edge. This whole thing was a misery, and I know you have a lot of stuff on your mind. But you need to talk to me about some of this, you know? You can't let this eat at you, burning you from the inside like acid! You need to talk about shit-"

Dean turned to him with a withering stare. "You don't know jack, Sam. Don't f~cking psycho-analyse me, alright? There's nothing wrong with me. It was just a regular kill, and nothing else; just like a hundred before and same as the next hundred. Why do you always have to twist everything into knots?"

"No, don't do that! Look; you've been really hard to be around, Dean. More than usual, and it's not like you. You know as well as I do that there was more to this. I just want you to-"

"To what? Cry in your arms, Sam?! Jesus christ, give it a rest! We killed a vamp. End of story. Stop turning this into some sort of soap opera, because it isn't. Why do you keep hammering at me to tell you stuff that isn't there? Maybe you're the one that needs the therapy!"

Sam looked up and roared in frustration. "Stop it, Dean! Just cut it out, will you? It's not just me; David can see you're screwed up too! We're just trying to help you!"

Dean glared at his brother. "Sam, what the hell do you want from me now? I'm just sick of being here. Am I supposed to be happy that I'm still here in this damned bed? I'm not asking you to smother me like a freaking shroud!"

Sam swore. He picked up the empty plastic cup from the table and threw it with a frustrated violence. It bounced harmlessly off the wall and fell to the carpet. "I am not _smothering _you, you stupid, sour jack-ass! You know, David's been slaving to meet your every need for days, and so have I! We aren't asking for praise or god-forbid, a little appreciation! Just a little courtesy every now and then would be a change! But all you do is bitch and whine about your own state! You know; we all went through the wringer back there, not just you! Hell, I got attacked! And David had to do shit that will probably haunt him for the rest of his life, for christs sake! So why don't you crawl out of your own ass for two minutes and see that it isn't just you having nightmares!"

Dean stared at his brother until his eyes began to prick. He turned away and cursed in response. He knew what Sam was saying, but he wasn't feeling any empathy at the moment, he was still too filled with bitter self reproach to see beyond his own walls. "What the f~ck do you want me to say, Sam? I know you and David went through the grinder too, I'm not blind! And yeah, there's crap on my mind, congrats on your brilliant diagnosis! But neither of you can even begin to feel what I do! You didn't go through what I did, you didn't hear her talk about her brother, you didn't see her face, or... smell your own skin burning, did you? And you weren't there when she refused to do it to me in the end! Or see Paul when he cut me loose! He did that, even though I killed Conrad, and it cost both of them their lives! So why don't you just go back to your well-adjusted happy place and leave me the hell alone! Don't lay your damned psychology crap on me!"

Sam stepped back, angry and trying very hard to keep his temper. . He knew he'd pushed too far, and he knew he would get no further. But he also knew that Dean had to open up to someone, even if it wasn't his brother. If he didn't, he would grow more and more bitter, and when he did he would become reckless. He'd seen it before. He turned to leave, but at the doorway he spoke one last time.

"Fine! Fine, Dean. You got your precious space! But do us all a favour; go talk to somebody. Find yourself a shrink, or a whore, or a priest, I don't care! But do it, because if you don't lighten up on David, and on me, I'm gonna have to punch your lights out!"

He stormed out then, leaving Dean to himself.

* * *

Dean lay in the silence of his room. He sighed, and felt a pang in his middle that was so sharp he could swear something was tearing inside. He knew Sam was right. Everything he'd said was bang-on. He hated himself for forcing Sam to confront him. He hated that he was treating David badly. He hated everything. He lay in turmoil for an hour, and when he couldn't stand his own company any longer, he decided he needed to get out. He sat up and let himself acclimatise to being vertical. It had been a while. Next, he dealt with his tether, pulling the tube from the port in his hand. He dressed, and made his way downstairs.

Sam was sitting in front of a loud television. He wasn't watching it. He glanced up in surprise at seeing Dean up and moving. "Hey! Where are you going?" he demanded as Dean snatched his keys from a wall hook and opened the door.

"Out." Dean offered nothing more, and he went out to the car.

Sam stood on the porch as the Impala roared to life. He knew he shouldn't ask where, but he was worried regardless. He made a motion and Dean rolled down the window.

"What?!" Dean growled.

"Nothing. Just keep your phone handy."

Dean nodded curtly. He revved it hard and squealed out of the driveway.

* * *

As he drove, he reviewed his options. A shrink was out of the question, he didn't trust them. A whore was a nice idea, but he didn't have a whole lot of folding money, and frankly, he wasn't feeling up to it. It left the priest. He wasn't overly comfortable with that either. But at least they were free, and unlike spilling his angst to some random bartender, a priest was bound by certain useful vows of non-disclosure.

He drove aimlessly. Buildings, scenery, people...all passed without notice. He stewed as he drove. Yeah...he needed to vent. Out loud, to a real person. It wasn't doing any good just spinning it around and around in his head. Wasn't doing Sam and David any good either. He pulled over and parked when he saw a steeple.

_..St. Brigid's Catholic Church._ He stared uncertainly at the building. It was old; brick-built, with a tall set of stone steps leading up to the doors. There was a sandwich board on the sidewalk, offering a pre-Easter confessional. The doors were open, and a host of quavering old voices, accompanied by an off-key organist, were practicing hymns. He glanced up the street, then down at his watch. It was just past four, and the afternoon sun was shining pleasantly through the new spring growth of the trees that lined the street. The warmth of the sunlight and the happy din from within the church were a stark contrast to the sourness that ate at his centre. Sam's angry words prodded him to step out and stand at the base of the stairs. .._Go talk to a bloody priest or something_.. He frowned at the memory, and a pang of guilt over the way he'd been acting made him dig his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and shift uncomfortably. He peered into the depths of the building. It looked warm. Welcoming. He sighed and forced himself to climb the steps.

He stood for a moment in the doorway, feeling like an unwelcome stranger. The people within were busy with their practicing, the choir collectively mutilating some unfortunate hymn, and a group of giggling children in a corner, herded there by a patient-looking woman who was trying to organize them for their Easter pageant play. They didn't notice him, and he turned to leave.

"You look a little lost, dear." An ancient and impossibly wrinkled woman smiled up at him. She had a thin halo of snow-white curls, it framed her dried-apple face comically. "Can I help you?"

He was thwarted from his escape. She took hold of his arm and smiled.

He stood nervously, ill-at-ease and wanting to flee. "No. Well, yeah...uh, I just wanted to do the uh.." He was looking at the row of oak confessional booths. She saw where he stared, and she asked, "Are you Roman Catholic, dear?"

He blinked. "I...I don't know, to be honest. My Dad wasn't a church-goer. My Mom died when I was little, so I don't know what she was. We had a nativity set at christmas, if that helps.."

"I see. Well, were you looking to say confession? I saw you glancing over there."

He was intensely uncomfortable. "I guess...maybe. Yeah, I was thinking about it."

"Well good for you. You'll feel better after." She patted his hand. She understood his dilemma. She was pretty sure that the inside of a church was foreign ground to him; he clearly had no idea of the protocol. "Well, it's not hard, dear. You go into one of those spaces, and wait for Father Elliot. When he comes into the space beside you, he'll ask you a few questions, and you just talk to him. Just unload, whatever is bothering your conscience. He won't judge you, he won't even see you, there's a screen between you and him so he can't tell who you are. When he hears you out, he'll give you some instructions, some prayers to say. Then you're done."

He thanked her, and she took him by the elbow and steered him toward a booth. He had no choice but to enter. As he shut the door behind him, she assured him that she would go fetch the priest. He sat glumly in the dark, on the padded bench, regretting his choice already. It smelled inside, like dust, and old varnish, votive candles, stale incense and old lady perfume. He wondered at just what evils the collection of smiling old biddies could possibly admit to. Father Elliot was going to earn his pay tonight. _Oh good. This oughta make his week_.

* * *

He waited in fidgety silence for the priest's arrival. When he heard the adjacent door open, he sighed with relief. He heard him settle himself on his own bench, and then it was quiet. "How may I help you?" a rich, soothing voice asked.

Dean cleared his throat. "Uh...well, I don't really know how to do this."

A chuckle rose from behind the screen. "You say, 'Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.' "

"Ok." Dean repeated the phrase. He paused then, waiting for instruction.

"Just say what's on your mind, son. " the priest encouraged. "You came here for a reason, right?"

"Yeah.." Dean took a breath, and forged ahead. He began to relate his ugly tale, regarding Conrad and Iris, and Paul. There was a weighty back story to everything, one that would have kept the both of them cloistered for the better part of the night, but he didn't feel the need to share it all. He kept it current. When he was finished, he waited for the inevitable disbelief. As soon as he's let the story out, he regretted it. _He'll think I'm a freaking lunatic_... he fretted. _Or mocking this_-

But Father Elliot answered with a gravity that seemed to indicate his belief. "You have told quite a tale, my son." He paused before continuing. "And you have brought death to good people. You've sinned in the most serious and grave manner. Are you suggesting that you're sorry for these things?"

Dean blinked in the darkness. "Well...yeah.. I am, mostly."

Father Elliot continued in his deep honey'd voice. "But are you _truly_ sorry? These things you have committed should put your very soul in peril. You've murdered, my son. Unjustifiably. What are you asking of me now?"

Dean squirmed now, sweating. He thought this would be somehow easier. "I...I don't know...forgiveness, I guess. Tell me how to make it up for this. I don't know..."

The priest made a sound that suggested he pursed his lips and sighed. There was an agonizing silence for several moments.

"Father?" Dean queried. "Are you still there?"

"Oh yes. Yes, I will always be here." His voice had lost the reassuring timbre at had held, and was anything but priestly now. It was more of an ugly growl. "My son, you _have_ sinned . And so greatly that I think that god and I cannot help you. I think your actions doom you, I truly do. You come here admitting these things, these terrible actions...but what do you want of me? A simple penance of a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers? No. No, hunter; you will be held accountable. There will be no absolution today. You will pay for what you've done. You'll pay in pain and blood!"

Dean snapped up at that. _Hunter?_ "What? Father Elliot..?" He stood up in the booth, tense and confused. The priest did not answer. Instead, he laughed, in a gutteral parody of humour.

Dean bolted from the booth then. His door flung wide, crashing back against its frame in a hail of splinters He skidded out into the aisle, turned and hauled at the adjacent door, but it was already open. The space behind was empty. He drew his gun and spun, searching wildly. But there was nothing amiss; no priest stood there, and no vampire. He was met by the stares of the other church members. The music had stopped and the choir stood in confused silence, murmuring amongst themselves. Dean stood, wrapped in thick silence, surrounded by consternation and confusion. Time stood still. He knew that no priest had been his confessor. He recognized that resonant voice. But the people in the church weren't privy to any of it; they stared at him with sharp condemnation. He scanned wildly, searching the pews, the aisles, the sanctuary. When he was sure that Johan was nowhere near, he backed away from the accusing eyes, and escaped out the open front doors.

* * *

He sat in heaving panic in the car, once he'd put miles between himself and that place. _He was there..Johan had been right beside him_. They'd been lulled for over a week into believing that the vampire had lost interest. He should have known better. When he'd calmed down enough, he put an urgent call in to Sam. When he answered, Dean relayed his story in an anxious flood, prompting his brother to beg him to slow down.

"_Whoa, whoa, Dean, take a breath! A church? Is he there now, can you see him?!"_

Dean repeated it. "He's here, Sam! Sonofabitch was inches away from me. We've got to warn David, is he there?"

_"No, he's at the hospital. Look, just get home, Dean, I'll get ahold of David., leave that to me. And floor it, I don't want to worry about you ending up in his grip at any second!"_

Dean didn't take issue with Sam's directive. He fully agreed, and he headed back to the house at record speed.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Sam met him in the driveway. He practically pulled Dean out of the car before it was stilled. "You ok?!" he demanded as he hauled him toward the door.

"Yeah! Let go!" Dean shrugged him off. He pushed through the door with Sam a close second. Once inside, Dean made a beeline to David's sideboard and the array of bottles stored there. He found a glass and filled it with something, downing it with a trembling hand. Once fortified, he allowed himself to breathe, and he steadied himself with a firm grip on the edge of the sideboard. He turned to Sam. "Did you talk to David?"

"No, not yet; he's still in surgery. I said it was urgent but it'd wait 'til he was done."

Dean nodded. "Did they know when he'd be out?"

"They thought at around five thirty. I made sure they made a note to get ahold of us as soon as he was finished."

Dean sat down, dizzy and tired. He'd only recently been up, after an extended period of convalescence, and his abrupt immersion into active duty was a strain. He rubbed a tired hand through his hair. "At least he's somewhere safe, and with people, for now."

Sam agreed. "He's safe where he is. Now tell me what the hell happened, Dean."

Dean took a breath. He hadn't realized how shaken he was until now. "I was driving around, for a while. I wasn't really paying attention to stuff, I was just cruising, thinking. I wanted to-" He was shy of relating the rest. It was personal. "I ended up at this church, somewhere in the west end. And I figured...maybe I'd talk to somebody."

Sam hid his surprise. "So, did you?"

Dean swallowed another draught. "Yeah. Spilled my guts. I thought it was the priest, a Father Elliot. Catholic church, old fashioned confessional booths, you know? So I was waiting for the priest, and he came, or I thought he did-"

"And-?"

"And it wasn't. Christ Sam, I laid it all out, thinking I was talking to a stranger, and it turned out to be that fanged sonifabitch. He told me I was screwed, said I was... He said I was never gonna have any forgiveness. He said...he said I'd pay, in blood."

Sam swore, and Dean continued. "I figured out pretty quick that it wasn't any priest in the next booth. I busted out, but he was already gone. Scared the last few years off the lives of the choir there."

Sam could picture it. "But you're sure it was Johan?"

Dean gave him a look that didn't require interpretation. "He called me _hunter,_ Sam. The priest would never have done that. Besides, he said enough that I knew who I was dealing with."

Sam didn't doubt it. He was pleased that Dean had finally sought a means to unload whatever weighed him down, but he was saddened and alarmed at the result. He could see that Dean was deeply shaken. "Sit down, Dean, you're white as a sheet. Here, call David again in ten minutes. I'm going to pour you another drink, and me too."

Dean nodded. He sat hunched, and ran his trembling hand over his eyes. _Sonofabitch!. _he thought, over and over. For a minute there, he'd thought they'd be ok...

* * *

David stepped out of the operating theater, tired and relieved that the surgery went well. He glanced up as a nurse hurried toward him. "Dr Bowman, you have an urgent message."

He froze, instantly alarmed, as the nurse continued. "Someone named Dean; he said you would know him, phoned while you were in surgery. He asked that you meet him in the morgue as soon as you could, and he said it was very important."

David nodded. He was still in his stained scrubs, but if Dean had said it was urgent, he wouldn't waste time changing first. He thanked her and headed toward the elevator. _The morgue... _He wondered what that was about. It was on the basement level; he punched the button and waited impatiently for the elevator to find its destination. They had been free of Johan's tyranny so far, but if Dean was here at the hospital, god knows what was going on. He prayed fervently now that nothing had happened to Sam.

* * *

Dean downed the whiskey and put the glass aside. He glanced worriedly at Sam and tried again to reach David. "Still in surgery." he affirmed. "I think we should get out there and meet him as soon as he's out."

Sam nodded. If Johan was here, and had been tailing them, he would know where David worked. It was best that they stay together from this point forward. "Are you up for this, Dean?"

"Yeah. Perfect." he growled. He gathered himself and rose decisively. "C'mon. Sooner we see him the better."

* * *

David waited in the cold, antiseptic-smelling room. The person there had no recollection of anyone who wasn't personnel coming in, and he knew nothing about anyone asking for the doctor. It didn't surprise David, as Dean had a way of slipping past even the most vigilant people. He decided to wait outside in the hall. After several tense moments, he began to pace, meandering back and forth in the empty hallway, cursing that cell phones didn't work within the hospital walls. Light footfalls reached his ears and he glanced up, and was greeted by a strange figure. Clad in black from head to toe, hooded, and bizarrely masked; the man nodded to him as he passed. David was about to say something but it never made it past his lips. The man turned so swiftly that he was a blur, and he rabbit-punched the doctor squarely in the face. David's nose blossomed with blood, and he sagged in shock. He was picked up effortlessly and flung over the shoulder of the stranger, and spirited away down the hall. No one had seen or heard anything. The hall echoed with the slight sound of running feet, and then returned to empty silence. The only evidence that David had even been there was a small spattering of red on the shiny, tiled floor.

* * *

The drive was short and tense. Sam drove while Dean kept a close eye on the traffic behind. No one followed them, and they parked at the hospital and quickly went in search of their friend. They beguiled their way into learning where he was performing surgery, and there they spoke to the woman who was manning the desk. They asked to see Dr. Bowman.

"And who may I say is inquiring?"

"It's...it's Dean. He knows me." Dean barked impatiently.

"Oh!" she said, recognizing the name. "Well he's not here of course."

"What do you mean? I thought he was in surgery!"

Her hackles began to rise at his curt tone. "Well yes, he was. But when he came out I gave him your message, and he went straight to see you."

Dean glanced at Sam, instantly alarmed. "I asked him to call us-"

She interjected. "No, you distinctly said meet him. I know, I took the message myself! I sent him down not fifteen minutes ago...just as you'd asked!"

"What?!" he demanded. "Where?!"

"In the morgue! That's what your message was. I passed it along as soon as he came out, and he headed straight down."

Dean swore. The nurse's eyes widened at his profanity. "Where is this morgue? How do I get to it?!" he demanded.

"It's...it's on the lower level. Take the elevator, over there; turn left when you get out, you'll see a directional sign." She could see that both men were alarmed. "Should I call security?"

"No!" they said in unison. The last thing they needed was a couple of clumsy, poorly trained meatballs getting in the way. Or witnesses... They left her standing open-mouthed, and they headed to the elevators.

* * *

Woozy after being sucker-punched, David regained his senses, but he found himself tied to an electrical conduit the passed up the wall from floor to ceiling. He blinked painfully, snuffing at the clotting blood that blocked his nose. He was uncomfortably gagged and he was overwhelmed by a sudden, claustrophic fear of suffocating, but he settled himself with some slow breathing. He was alone it seemed. He craned around to view his prison. The room was dimly lit, and clearly some sort of receiving dock. A closed transport truck door dominated one end, and there were racks and bins along the wall, filled with hospital material destined for disposal. He cleared his thoughts, trying to remember the circumstances that had led him there. _Right, a message...Dean had said to- _His heart sank. Obviously it had been a ruse. But this was no simple mugging or drug robbery. The caller had used Dean's name. There was only a handful of people who knew the both of them, and as far as he knew, only one individual amongst that lot who harboured them ill will. He suddenly felt sick. His nose was throbbing fiercely, he knew it was broken. But so far that was the only harm he'd suffered. His neck was still puncture-free, thank god. If it had been Johan, and the more he remembered, the surer he was; then what was he up to now? He yanked in futility at the cord that held him, until the nylon began to cut into his skin. _What the hell was going on..?_

* * *

No one at the morgue knew what they were talking about. The unfortunate timing of a shift change had eliminated any connection to David, and the man insisted that he'd seen no one. The brothers had no choice but to believe him. They stood back out in the empty hallway, at a loss.

"Now what?" Sam asked.

Agitated, Dean swore under his breath. "I don't know...we don't even know if he even made it here! This place is huge, it's a freaking needle in a haystack!" He stared down at the floor for a moment, his mind clouded with worry. He saw something there, and he bent down, touching a finger to a smear on the tile. When he brought his hand to his nose, the coppery scent of blood was clear. "Shit!" He stood up and glanced up and down the hall. "Blood. And still pretty fresh."

"Could it be from some stiff they brought in..?" Sam asked doubtfully.

Dean walked up the hall a short distance, examining the floor. "I don't think so. No trail of it, just the spot." He walked the other way, repeating his actions. "Nothing dripped from any gurney. And this is pretty damned fresh. It's not even clotted."

"Jesus... Should we split up?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded grimly. "You head up that way, I'll go the opposite. Holler if you find anything; cells don't work in here."

They set off and began to search.

* * *

The little mystery was cleared up quickly. A figure in black appeared at the doctor's side, so silently that David hadn't heard him at all, and was startled.

A deep chuckle came from behind the black lamb skin mask. David stared at the huge spectacle of a figure. Chestnut waves of shoulder-length hair, shot with grey, peeked out from under the mask and hood. It was the only evidence of humanity visible. Every inch of the man was covered, from finely made black gloves to the mask that concealed his face. Even the eyes were protected, covered by specially fitted dark lenses that were sewn into the leather. Johan had truly found a way to walk in daylight unscathed.

David's mouth was cotton lined. When he found his voice, he mumbled Johan's name. Johan responded by removing the gag. He put a hand around David's throat, cautioning him to mind his place and stay quiet. Shaking, David nodded.

"Hello my friend." the vampire said affably. His voice, though muffled by the mask, had the unmistakable rich timbre. David knew he would be smiling . "Are you pleased to see me?"

David said nothing. His mouth was so dry that he couldn't have if he'd wanted to.

Johan patted his shoulder and sat beside him, with all the manner of a friendly companion. "You must forgive my rudeness. I have treated you roughly, I fear. But I had to, you see. While I suppose I should feel some anger toward you, being friend and healer to the hunter; I do not. My quarrel is solely with him."

David was terrified. "How did you find us? Dean watched for you, the whole trip."

Again Johan chuckled, with genuine mirth. "You assume that my age and ways make me too old fashioned for these times. I dare say I am quite skilled, and I am familiar with all the electronic marvels of this day. But in your case. I confess it was not so difficult. I knew he would be watching for me. But you left your car behind. I simply used it to gain your personal information. People are very gullible, that will never change, regardless of the era. When I telephoned them, they were thoroughly convinced at the rental office that Officer Johan should have the information. After all, I had found an abandoned vehicle, and apparently it was theirs. I can be quite compelling, you know." He laughed again, clearly pleased with himself.

David had barely heard him. "Why me? You said your fight is with Dean alone. I haven't done anything to you."

The vampire leaned close and drew a fingertip through the congealing blood on David's chin. He would have licked it if his mouth hadn't been shielded. "Oh...you. You're nothing, really. Actually, I owe you a favour. You rid me of an irritation when you sliced that red-haired head from its shoulders. Paul had drawn his line, and I would have had to deal with him eventually. But no, your use to me is simply as bait. The two hunters are never separate, and always vigilant. They do nothing but watch, and hunt. Most annoying. But you; you have things to attend to, people who demand your presence, who need you. A life, as it were. Thus you are easy to isolate, as you can see. And they will come for you. It's maudlin really, the depth of their loyalty. But I will have them now, in a place and time of my choosing."

David felt faint. "They don't know I'm down here..."

"They will. You see, today I said hello to our hunter. It was quite amusing, the circumstance. He knows now that I am here, and he will try to warn you, to protect you. But such a terrible thing; he cannot contact you. So the two will come, and they will try to speak with you directly, but sadly you are not available. They soon will learn of my little falsehood. They will know you are in peril, and surely nearby, but where..?" He laughed happily. "Dean will never go to the authorities; his arrogance will not let him. They will hunt for you alone. Oh, it will drive that one mad; you are so close, but yet just out of his reach. Let him stew for a while, I like the taste of his misery. He is clever enough, he will figure it out. Or perhaps, at just the right moment, your voice will reach his ears..." He re-tied the gag and stood, towering over David where he sat. "But not yet, ..not yet. I am tired, thirsty; it has been quite a long day for me. I need only to rest for a little while, and drink. I have availed myself of some of your lovely little bags of Type O. It's a little bland for my tastes, and cold, but such convenient packaging. Of course I prefer it warm, but they will do for now... Perhaps later I will make you scream when I have need of a little fix." He walked away and left David to digest that.

* * *

He was cursing the sheer enormity of the caverous institution. Room after room had yielded nothing, no clue, no hint of David. The few people Dean had passed hadn't seen any doctor by that name. He was wary of drawing their suspicions; he was a stranger, out of place and acting oddly. But it was the working level, where men with dull coloured shirts that had names on them went about the business of maintaining the mechanics of the building. They didn't care who he was as much as they did on the higher levels. He found himself nearly running from door to door, and he chastised himself to settle down; he would miss things this way. But at the junction of yet another series of hallways, he felt the first cold grip of fear that he would fail. It wasn't enough that he'd brought misery and death to Iris and Paul, and Conrad. Now David's ugly demise would be on his head as well.

* * *

David tried to yell. He kept a wary eye on the reclining vampire, and when he thought he was sleeping, or whatever it was that he did, he leaned as close to the door as he could and tried and tried to alert someone. But the gag was tied too tightly, and it filled his mouth. The sound he managed was so muted that it was wasted effort. He gave up finally, exhausted. He heard Johan chuckling at his expense, and David's eyes sprung heated tears of frustration and despair.

* * *

Dean knew he was in a panic; he wasn't thinking clearly. But David was one of his most cherished friends, and he owed him his life several times over. David had without question spent time and money and effort to keep them breathing, with little care as to the risk. This time he had paid in blood. He stopped at the end of yet another hallway, and took a few deep breaths. He had to start thinking like his adversary. It was obvious as to why the vampire would choose the deepest recesses of the building; these halls and rooms were far less populated then the busy levels above. And there was no threat of daylight. Down here, there was no saving lives. Anyone who ended up here was beyond their efforts, and was stored for processing along with the rest of the refuse that was generated here. He knew this level. It had been the manner of his escape from custody, when he and David had first met. He remembered that wild gurney ride down the hall, his friends all risking their own freedom to help him. They'd eventually gotten his sorry and battered carcass out of that hospital, by means of one stashed Impala in a quiet loading dock.

..

He stopped mid-stride. They would have a similar set-up here, he was sure of it. Even if they were a storey underground, there would be ramps from ground level. He checked his watch. It was approaching five-thirty. They would be quieter now, unlike the busy day. Few people would need to go into them, with the exception of the occasional custodial staff, bringing in material for the next day. His heart beat faster. He wished he had a way of contacting Sam, but at the moment, his best bet was to yell, and he didn't want the attention that would bring. Not yet, anyway. He went back to where he'd seen a directory sign, and prayed he was right. If his hunch didn't pan out, he'd have wasted precious time, and it could cost David dearly.

* * *

Sam, for his part, was coming up empty. And he was starting to attract attention. People were noticing this uncommonly tall young man, who radiated tension, looking into rooms and corners and hallways. Twice he had to speed up to avoid a uniformed person intent on asking him if he needed assistance. A third time would probably bring down security. And he'd ended up with the short end of the search. In his direction, there were fewer rooms and an entire section was dedicated to labwork, where techs in masks and gloves concentrated diligently on whatever they did all day. It was fairly unlikely that a black-swathed vampire carrying an unconscious man would have passed through their ranks unnoticed. He had a sinking feeling that he was spinning his wheels. He decided that he needed to get back to Dean, and if he too was unsuccessful, they'd have to quickly form a new strategy. He hoped for success, of course. But he also worried that if Dean had found David, he could end up in Johan's clutches. Which was the point, after all. He knew as well as Dean did that this was a cat and mouse game, and like any cat, Johan had a nasty habit of playing with his food. He stepped up his pace.

* * *

Dean pursued his hunch. He'd checked two bays. Even though they were empty, he felt sure he was on the right track At the third, he again looked up and down the hall to ensure he was alone, then carefully turned the handle. The latch clicked quietly, and he pushed the heavy steel door open. It was the same view as the others, fairly empty, except for racking along the walls, and a few random rolling shelves and bins. He had to creep further in to peer around them to the other side of the bay. When he did, he stopped in his tracks.

David was there, slouched against the wall. He was alive, that was clear, resting with his head on his bound arms. Dean held his breath and approached him stealthily. He scanned back and forth across the loading bay, but saw no sign of Johan, and he ran the last few feet.

David lifted his head and cringed at the sound, instantly wide-eyed in fear. When he saw who it was that crouched beside him, he blinked in disbelief. Dean quickly stripped the gag from him, and motioned for silence. He checked David's face, frowning in anger over the damage. He saw the bloodied scrubs. "Anything else hurt?" he whispered tersely.

David shook his head. "He's here, Dean! Johan! He lured me here, I thought it was you!"

"I know." Dean swiftly ascertained that David was well tied. He looked around nervously. "Where is he now?"

"I...I don't know. He was resting earlier, he was right over there, but he got up a while ago." he whispered. "Dean, he said I was bait, you've got to get out!"

Dean smiled a little as he drew his knife to cut the cord. "How 'bout we both get the hell out of here, doc?" He started sawing, but David gasped.

"Dean!"

Dean was aware of every inch of the loading bay. But he had never once looked up, and it was a tragic oversight. Johan had deliberately left David's view, and in that brief time he'd silently crept up into the steel girders; a hooded, black vulture waiting in breathless anticipation for the appearance of his prey. David saw him leap a second too late and his warning to Dean was useless. Johan landed on the hunter, flattening him. Dean's chin hit the concrete with enough force to send stars shooting across his view. The knife he'd held spun out of his hand and clattered a few yards away. But his reactions were still honed despite his state, and he kicked out and twisted away like a greased weasel from under his attacker. He barely had time to suck in a breath before Johan crashed him again. He was sent rolling; colliding with one of the steel carts and scattering the bins from its shelves. He got up shakily and squared off with Johan, who laughed behind his mask.

"Insect!" the vampire goaded. "You tiny flea! Come on then, entertain me...let's have your best now!"

Dean growled something and threw himself at Johan, grabbing him around his waist and driving him down hard to the polished cement. The big vampire let him think for a moment that he'd made a gain, but he quickly squelched any optimism Dean may have felt with a wicked knee to his stomach that left him crawling away, gagging. He goaded his hunter; "Really? This is the legendary Winchester? The shining best of all hunters? Surely you have more!"

Bruised and panting hard, Dean gathered himself for another lunge, but Johan was quicker. The vampire flattened him backwards with the force of their collision, and clutched a knot of his clothing at his chest, raising him and pounding him back hard against the concrete. It knocked the wind out of the hunter and he gasped to get it back. But he still kicked hard, and Johan felt the full force of a steel-toed boot in his groin. He roared in pain, and retreated for a moment. Dean rolled away, but his respite was short lived. Tired of toying with him, Johan leapt on him again. He tried to grab a handful of Dean's short hair to wrench his head back and expose his throat. But Dean had seen Johan's moves before, and he knew what would be coming. He tucked his head down and wriggled free, but not before reaching out and tearing the soft leather mask from Johan's face. The fasteners ripped loose from the hood, the leather tore in half and came away, scattering the dark glass lenses. His face exposed, Johan shrank away instinctively before realizing that no daylight threatened him, and when he knew he was not in danger he howled in a rage.

Dean's knife had stopped it's slide across the floor several feet away, and David saw it. He strained to reach it with his outstretched foot. "Dean!" he cried, feeling his toe make contact. He kicked it hard, and it spun toward the hunter, who lunged forward and grasped it. Knife firmly in hand, Dean rose to his knees and leapt up just as the vampire flew at him.

Desperate, Dean gripped it tight with both hands, and swung the knife in a high arc intended for Johan's adam's apple. But before he could complete his swing, Johan's great reach stopped it mid-air. His cold hands, as strong as iron, caught Dean's wrists and held them tightly. Dean roared through gritted teeth and tried with every fibre of his being to force the blade down to its target. Sweat beaded and streamed, and his arms burned and shook against Johan's grip. Even Johan's face grew scarlet with his effort, as Dean Winchester still bore a formidible strength, despite his recent suffering. But he was injured, and Johan was hampered only by the weariness of his day-walking.. They forced each other back and forth on the concrete, like fencers locked in their strained and desperate impasse, each pushing hard to direct the blade. Tethered to the conduit, David could only watch helplessly while he wrenched at the ropes and hollered loudly for help.

Dean felt his strength waver, and the muscles in his arms cramped and began to fail. Johan growled with ferocious exertion, and he began to win. His grip on Dean's own wrists slowly turned the knife, until Dean's hands were forced downward, the blade now directed toward his own chest. Spittle collected against the vampire's bared and pointed teeth, and he huffed with exertion. Dean strained so hard that he saw stars, and the tendons in his sweating neck stood out like sinew. But he couldn't hold him off. Johan was gaining now; the blade moving down in hard-won increments. The shining point inched closer to his heart, vibrating with their opposing energy. Dean faltered then, and ground out one last curse as his strength abandoned him. He knew he'd lost, but he wasn't giving in. In a last ditch effort he twisted aside, and the blade cut through the tough fabric of his coat, through the layers beneath, and punctured his side.

Johan locked his eyes on those of his prey, he grinned an ugly grimace and pushed the knife hard.

Dean gasped. A wave of icy shock washed over him. The steel that was meant for his heart pierced deep through the taut muscle between his ribs. His hands let go, suddenly nerveless, and Johan, roaring his triumph; drove it in to the hilt.

He was too spent to scream. He felt the blade grind against bone in a flash of caustic agony. The industrial view of the ceiling that swam in his vision was blocked by Johan's leering face, and he felt the vampire's full weight on him; his breath against his throat. _No... _he thought in panic. -_Not like this_- He pushed at him weakly, but he had nothing left, and waiting for the inevitable, he shut his eyes tight.

* * *

His expectation of his demise was premature. Johan was thrown off sideways, and a huge blur of a figure rode him down hard to the floor. Instinctively, Dean rolled away, clutching his side and crawling a few yards to safety as the flailing knot of bodies thrashed violently behind him. He heard David cry Sam's name. The grunting and crashing combatants plowed into a large bin and scattered its contents noisily across the concrete. Dean reached the wall and propped himself against it, consumed by excruciating pain. He grasped the protruding handle, gritting teeth to pull it out, but David's sharp voice reached him.

"Dean, no! Leave it, or you'll bleed out!"

David's view of him was clear enough from his vantage point that he could see what Dean's intent was. Dean sobbed and pressed his hand close to the wound in a vain attempt to stop the agony. He hunched over for a few moments, heels grinding against the floor until he got a grip on the sickening pain. The two battling figures were a violent crush of blows and curses; the dull crack of bone against hard cement, hair tangled and flying. Dean knew that Sam was at a disadvantage. Even in peak form, the vampire out-classed him in weight and strength. His inevitable defeat would belong to all of them.

Dying or not, Dean could never let that happen. He craned his neck, in search of something to grasp. A metal box was fixed to the wall there, housing a toggle switch. More electrical conduit snaked from it to the floor. Resolute, he clenched his teeth and reached up, grasping the cable over his head and pulling himself up. But his hand was slick with blood and it slipped off, and he dropped back to the floor. It jarred the knife and he nearly blacked out, but Sam's struggling voice kept him in the present. He smeared his palm dry on his jeans, and tried again. This time his fingers held and he hauled himself to his knees. He looked up to see what he could use to pull himself higher, and realized then what he was using as a handhold. He could have cried with relief. With a quick backward glance at the fighters, he turned and hit the toggle switch as hard as he could. The lock released and the mechanism clanked to life, and the chain overhead began to draw the heavy door up. A flood of warm, late-afternoon light flooded down the ramp and filled the bay.

The shock on Johan's face was priceless. He instantly released his hold on Sam, and turned toward Dean where he sat gasping. His expression registered his disbelief, but before he could speak, the sun began to do its work. Johan grew wall-eyed; his skin began to smoke. He let loose a strangled howl, clutching at his face as it twisted and sizzled in the sudden, bright warmth. He tried to crawl out of the light but the door was fully open now, the entire dock was flooded with sunlight. His lustrous hair curled and whitened in the heat generated by his body, then burst into flame. He wailed, launching into a blistering string of archaic dutch curses, clutching at his hood and trying to wrap it around his face.

Worried he would succeed in shielding himself, Sam pounced on him and pinned his arms. He pulled the hood away to fully expose him, and held him there as the vampire writhed and screamed. It was a hideous, beautiful sight. Sam let go only when the heat of the vampire's immolation grew too high. He backed away as Johan's black, protective clothing went up in crackling flames. The screaming abruptly stopped and his movement ceased. Within minutes the once powerful and seemingly invincible creature was reduced to ashes, only the cloth of his oilskin coat remained in a smouldering tatter.

* * *

Sparrows twittered outside on the railing, picking at spiders, oblivious to what had happened. Theirs were the only sounds, as the trio sat in weary, shell-shocked silence. Sam came forward and nudged the remains with his foot, and it collapsed into a shapeless pile of grey dust.

The sound his brother uttered then spun him around. Dean sagged to the floor. He clawed at his side where the hilt of his knife protruded, a froth of bright blood at his lips. He lay his head down, coughing. Sam knelt at his side, dismayed at the toll. He tried to comfort him, but it was useless. His face screwed up in pain, Dean strained to breathe as his chest filled with blood. "Get David-" he choked, "he's hurt-"

Sam glanced up to see that David was already heading toward him, along with a number of others who'd come at his shouting. "He's ok, Dean, he's right here."

David crouched over him now and scanned his state with alarm. He turned and shouted to his colleagues, and a flurry of activity surrounded them. Other medics, security people, strangers; all were focused on the man who was down. He tried to say something as he was stripped of his layers, his sodden tee shirt cut away. Warm hands and cold metal things touched him, but he barely felt it. The urgent sounds began to meld into an indecipherable din.

He was frightened for a moment, but Sam leaned close; his tense but gently smiling face filled his view. "Easy, buddy; lie still, ok?" he said, recognizing his brother's fear.

Dean blinked several times, but a smile fluttered briefly around his mouth. "We got him..." he whispered, shuddering in pain. "We got him, Sam." Blood bubbled as he whispered, and he coughed again.

Sam held him under his arms and raised him up to ease it as spasms of pain kept him gasping. As he watched his brother's expression relax, and change to blandness, his eyes filmed over with tears; tears of relief, of pride. Tears of sympathy. "You did it, buddy. The bastard's gone, for good. We're all safe, it's ok. It'll be ok now."

Dean nodded, and he tensed again and clutched at Sam's arm, desperate for something solid as darkness invaded. His eyes rolled, and fearing he would not wake again, he whispered something. It was so quiet that Sam couldn't make it out. He urged him to save his strength, but Dean repeated it.

"Sorry, Sammy."

Sam panicked. "No! Dean, no! Don't you leave, you hear me? Dean!"

Dean didn't hear. He never felt the hands that lifted him off the concrete onto the gurney. He never heard David's anxious orders as the doc was himself pulled away to be treated. The confusion of sound around him faded, he was unaware of the oxygen mask as it was pressed to his face. They milled around him, pushing Sam away as they worked. He was swiftly taken from the place, and he disappeared behind swinging doors.

* * *

Sam was left standing in the hallway, distraught and mute. In a moment, there were people again. They came, the police; peppering him with questions, which he tried to answer in ways that would seem plausible. Nothing remained of Johan, so there was no need to explain him. He became a regular, human assailant in the telling, one who had escaped from the loading dock after attacking the doctor and the man now fighting for his life in surgery. David would corroborate his story that they were strangers who had merely responded to the doctor's shouts, that the surgeon had been lured below for unknown reasons. When all the official grilling was over, he escaped and fled upstairs to find where they'd taken his brother.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The jolting of the gurney brought him around. He stared in fearful confusion at the people who ringed him, as the ceiling tiles fled past. They were all strangers; none of them knew anything about him, or his name, or-

He struggled to breathe. A sharp and vicious pain lanced through his chest, and he coughed violently, as fluid invaded his airways. He felt like he was suffocating, everything felt wrong. He pulled weakly at the mask that covered his mouth and nose and tried to speak, but he couldn't, and the strangers hovering over him urged him to be still. They wore tense, efficient expressions as they did what they were trained to do, and in his unreasoning panic he saw no allies here. He was sinking into in a whirling and muted world that was incomprehensible and terrifying.

"Sam?!" he choked. The gurney rocked and jolted as they pushed it along with urgent haste, and the jarring hurt him. He tried to rise, but succeeded only in lifting his head, staring wildly at them as firm hands held him down. They spoke to him but he didn't understand, it was all so strangely muffled. The mask that supplied his compromised lungs with oxygen felt like something oppressive and threatening pressed over his face, and he struggled against it. The clear plastic was coated on the inside with the blood that accompanied his gasping. The attendants glanced at each other and stepped up their pace.

His grasp on the visceral world was failing. Dean couldn't hold on. He lost sensation in his fingers first, then his hands, his face. He couldn't hear anything but the steady hiss in his ears, and even that began to fade. He felt the pain of each tortured breath less and less, and he relaxed then. His eyes were running with tears, and he let his focus blur, it was a blessed relief to let go. He stopped caring about what was happening to him and he drifted quietly away from the stress and pain of the present.

They knew that the man in their care was in dire straits, his tether wearing dangerously thin. And they also knew that he was in this state because he'd acted to save one of their own. Dr. David Bowman was a popular and well-liked addition to the staff. Collectively, they vowed that this hapless stranger's altruism would not cost him his life.

* * *

Sam finally located the area where Dean was taken. As he was in surgery, he had no choice but to find a seat and wait. It was familiar territory. He ignored the television that was playing in a corner. It was some annoying 80's movie, irritating in its light-hearted and improbable scenario. He tried to tune it out, and he rifled through the stack of out-dated magazines, finding nothing compelling enough to distract him and soothe his frayed nerves. He finally resorted to what he always did. He paced.

It was hours later when David found him. The doc had been checked over and pronounced battered but lucky, although at the moment he felt anything but. His face had been cleaned up and he sported a wide and padded pattern of tape over the broken bridge of his nose. His eyes were already beginning to colour like a raccoon's mask. He steered Sam to a chair and sat beside him.

"Hear anything yet?" Sam asked quietly.

David shook his head. "Nope. But Dennis is one of the best thoracic guys I know, so Dean's in good hands. Christ, I wish I was in there with him but at the moment I can't see a damned thing."

Sam knew David meant it. David was wearing an old pair of glasses, as he'd had to remove the contacts he'd been wearing when he was hit. They were a few prescriptions out of date. He glanced at his friend's battle scars. "Working on a couple of good shiners there. How are you feeling?"

David snorted. "Crappy. First time I've ever been hit in the face, actually. I'm kind of hoping it's the last. Broke my snozz, but they straightened it and assured me I won't end up looking like a pro-boxer. So I'll live. Hell, maybe Ellen will think it's manly." He grew serious then. "Sam, I want to thank you. You saved my hide today; you and Dean..."

Sam sighed. "You sure don't owe us anything, David. You should never have ended up in harm's way in the first place. You've done so much for us already, I hate that this pulled you in like that."

David brushed the sentiment aside. He sat back in his chair for a moment, closing his eyes and sighing. "I knew what I was in for when I first connected with you guys. Don't feel guilt on my behalf, Sam. This doesn't change anything. I mean sure, I'd prefer to help more from the sidelines, but this was a hell of a learning experience for me. It pretty much cured me of any remaining romantic notions of avenging my wife's death by going on a hunt. I guess Ellen will thank you for that."

Sam smiled a tired smile. David was solid, he could always count on him. He turned his mind to the worry at hand. "What do you think of his chances, David? I know it's bad, I could see him coughing blood. It got his lung, didn't it?"

David measured his reply. "Yes. It's a deep puncture, and it's involved. And he already had issues, as we both know. But Dean is a remarkably strong young man. He went through a lot physical battery through all of this. Par for the course, for him. I know he suffered a collapsed lung, but we got him in quick. My gut feeling is that he'll get through this. It'll take time and patience, for all of us, before we see him 100 percent. But we all know that road."

Sam nodded. That road was a familiar and bitter walk. He stretched, and rubbed his eyes. "Shit, I wish they'd tell us something."

"Soon, Sam. I expect we'll see somebody any time now." He looked around and lowered his voice. "Did you get the paperwork figured out?"

"Yeah. He's in under the name of William Holly. It's on a Visa card he finagled. I don't know how secure it is but it was the best we had right now."

"Ok, good to know." David said. "We'll get him out of here the second it's safe to do so. He can convalesce at my place, they kick people out pretty damned quick here anyway." He avoided any reference to the first disastrous meeting between the brothers and himself. But he was aware of the dangers as well as Sam was. The sooner Dean Winchester, regardless of his alias, was out of the public and administrative eye, the better. And there were other worries. He had to broach the subject of Johan. "What did you tell them?"

"I just described him as he was, a freak dressed in black who seemed to have some psychotic vendetta against random people. They told me they had the exact description from an attack earlier in the day. Some priest got his head nearly cracked open in his own church downtown. Poor old guy was sure that he'd been attacked by the devil himself. I guess he wasn't too far off the mark. Dean already told me he'd seen Johan there. Apparently he'd been following us for a while."

David was puzzled. "Dean..in a church?"

"Yeah...uh...I sort of had it out with him that morning, about his being such a difficult pain-in-the-ass. I told him he had to unload whatever was on his mind, and if it wasn't going to be to me, then he should find somebody, somewhere, to talk to, before his head exploded."

David knew what Sam was speaking of. "Ah." he said simply. He understood now why Dean would be in such a place. He must have been looking for a way to shed that weight.

"Yeah." Sam continued. "He was in the church confessional, thinking it was the priest beside him. But it was Johan. He came right back to me after, and we came out here to see if you were ok."

David shook his head. "Wow. Guess it was my lucky day that it went down that way then."

Sam almost laughed. "Oh yeah. Lucky. That's what I'd call you, David. You got tangled up with the Winchester brothers, and all their attendant crap. Lucky, lucky you."

David turned to him with a serious and earnest expression. "Don't say it like that, Sam. Christ, you know my history. You know about Catherine, and the werewolf. I would never in my lifetime had closure after what I saw the day she died. Everybody wanted to convince me that her death had been a tragic but natural thing. I'd have lost my freaking mind if I hadn't found you guys, and learned that it really was something supernatural, and something I couldn't have defended her against. And thanks to you, I have Ellen now, too. I've never had a single regret since knowing either of you. So yeah, I'd say I am lucky."

Sam had no words. He nodded again in silence, and he buried his disheveled head in his hands. David put a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezed it in sympathy.

When Sam had a better grip on his emotions, he rubbed his eyes dry and stood up. "I need to get out of here for a couple of minutes. David. I might go down to the loading dock, just to make sure nothing is there that would look weird. I need some air."

"Sure, Sam." David nodded. "I'll be here. Don't be too long though. I'm guessing they should be finishing up soon."

"I won't."

Sam left the lounge and headed down to the sub-grade level. He was feeling claustrophobic, stressed and bone-tired. His legs were cramping from sitting for endless hours in the hard, plastic chair. He took the stairs this time, relishing a bit of exercise. Once at the familiar floor, he made his way quickly to where it had all gone down.

* * *

The place was as he remembered. He went directly to the big bay door. All traces of his brother's blood had been scrubbed away. He turned and walked to where he'd left the pile of ash that had once been Johan. The grey dust was still scattered where he'd kicked it under a shelving unit. He glanced around nervously, and knelt to examine the small remains. He sifted his hand through it to be sure nothing identifiable was left in the ashes. A few shreds of scorched oilskin from his coat, nothing to worry about. But sometimes bits of bone, or an odd tooth remained, either of which could be disastrous. He ran his hand back again, and found something solid. He pulled it out. When he brought it into his view, it became apparent. A small, gold chain, constructed of tight, round rings, was now a fused mass. In the middle of it was a coin, pierced with a bale, also apparently of gold, He peered at it, reading what he could of its details. Much of it had been smoothed away, either through age, or the heat of Johan's immolation. He could make out a sort of knight, a handful of arrows in hand. The words were too blurred and foreign to discern, but the date was still clear. 1650. He pocketed it. Whatever sentimental keepsake it had been for the vampire, it was now a pleasant little bit of the spoils-of-war for the Winchesters. If it was really the high-carat gold it appeared to be, it would translate into much needed funds. Sam smiled grimly. Dean would be pleased by that. He hurried back to where David waited.

* * *

David looked up at his arrival. Sam rejoined him in the uncomfortable row of seats.

"Anything yet?" Sam asked.

David shook his head. "Everything tidy downstairs...?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah. Just dust, nothing left to analyse. Except this-" He passed the little gold mass to David's hand.

David stared at it, turning it over. "Huh." he said. "My glasses are way out of date, I can't read it. What is it?"

"Some old foreign coin. I can't read it either but it's dated 1650. Johan must have been wearing it around his neck."

David handed it back. "Ought to be worth something, I'd say. Dean will like that."

Sam smiled and put it into his pocket. David had echoed his own hopeful words. If Dean made it through this, he'd be pleased to see a little payback from Johan. _If._..

They sat in tired and tense silence for a while longer. When the surgeon finally appeared, they both shot to their feet.

David spoke first. "How'd it go, Dennis?"

The man smiled and looked his colleague over. "It went fine, Bowman. Whoever your savior is, he's a strong SOB. You oughta buy him a drink, or ten. He's stitched up and breathing well, considering. He took a nasty and deep knife wound, but it could have been a helluva lot worse."

David caught Sam's eye. He took the surgeon's hand and pumped it vigorously. "Thanks, Dennis. I'm relieved to hear that. Last thing I want is for someone to pay dearly in order to protect my own sorry ass."

The man nodded. "Well, I guess you owe somebody upstairs a thank-you. From what I hear, this weirdo was gunning for all kinds of front-line workers. Apparently he knocked some priest out earlier today before being scared off. It's all over the news now. You were damned lucky these guys heard you yell, because god-knows what we'd be facing if they hadn't come. From the looks of you, it could have been a real tragedy."

David touched his bandage gingerly. -_It was a tragedy-_ he thought to himself. For these boys, it would always be a tragedy. But the bottom line now was that it seemed Dean would get through this. He thanked his friend, and after some further quiet words, the surgeon left, and David turned to Sam. "Come on. Let's go see him."

The tension melted from the young man's pale and taut face. His eyes grew bright with moisture and his smile was tired but wide.

* * *

The first thing he was aware of was the weight of his eyelids. He tried to raise them, but the effort seemed disproportionately taxing. He abandoned the idea and settled for concentrating on the sounds around him. A familiar and soothing voice was close by. _Sam. Good_. He floated away again.

Sam leaned forward. He was sure that Dean had stirred, for a moment. He wanted to be the first thing his brother saw when he awoke. He knew Dean; he knew his fears. Dean was a rock ninety-nine percent of the time, but when he was finally down, he needed his comforts close. He turned to David, who was checking the various monitoring devices. "He was coming around, David...should I talk to him?"

David nodded. "It's wearing off now. He'll want to know you're here." After several years of their acquaintance, David also knew his charge well. He knew what calmed him. He retreated then and let the brothers have their space.

Sam was tired and sorely beaten. But his were superficial wounds, -bruises, scrapes; nothing like what Dean had sustained. He watched his brother's pale face for some indication that he was conscious. Dean wore a thin oxygen tube, he was breathing evenly, albeit noisily, but David had warned him that it would be that way. He'd suffered a deep chest wound, and his airways were still filled with coagulated blood. He would sound worse than he really was. He watched wearily for some new change in expression, some sign that he was coming out of it. Dean settled again into steady sleep.

* * *

David sat, perched uncomfortably on the heater under the window. He was more than vaguely aware of the throbbing in his face, and he could feel a tightness in both eyelids that foretold of a couple of epic shiners. He wanted more than anything to get back home, to his lazyboy, his TV and his idiot dog. But even more, he needed to see Dean surface and bounce back from this.

His colleague, the one he'd called Dennis, came in. He whistled in sympathy. "Wow...that'll be colourful." he said, indicating David's eyes.

David winced. "I guess I'm lucky regardless."

Dennis nodded. He glanced at David for a lengthy moment. "Your hero there, he has some history. Did you see those burns..?"

David had no choice but to play dumb. "No...what do you mean?"

Dennis pulled his colleague aside. "He's got some really nasty and fresh burns-both forearms and on his midriff. This wasn't from any accident. These were put there deliberately. And the stitches at the throat; that's fairly odd. And I guarantee this latest knifing wasn't his first experience with the wrong end of something sharp...he's a walking roadmap of scars."

David knew all this. But he couldn't let anyone know their connection, it was far too dangerous for all of them. He feigned surprise. "A fire, or an accident, or something?"

Dennis stared at Dean, and shook his head. "No direct flames. These were from something applied. Must have been brutal, the poor bugger. I don't know, Bowman; I can't help but think there's a bigger connection between this guy and your attacker. I was talking to the police earlier. Seems that when the priest was assaulted, there was another figure present. Scared some old biddies nearly into their graves...they described a youngish man, short-haired and waving a gun around. Sounds alot like our guy here."

David tried to mask the effect the words had. Visions of a long time ago, of hospitals and police and danger, of a wounded Dean fleeing from threat, filled his mind, and he had to beat down a rising panic. "Christ, Dennis, I don't know. All I know is I have no connection to any of these players, but I sure as hell am grateful that they came when I was hollering. It was a while before I came to, and it was only the fact that I was making a ruckus that anybody even came. That black-dressed psycho had nothing to say but alot of paranoid mumbling. I don't know what was going on in his head, but I'd bet my life that it wasn't based on reality. Maybe this guy was just here because of his injuries. Whatever he went through, I doubt it has anything to do with this."

Dennis said nothing. He watched in silence for a moment. Finally he asked, "That other young man there...is he a relative? Heard he was involved in the fight too..."

David wasn't sure how Sam had presented himself, but he knew that the younger Winchester's vigil now had to be explained. "I think they're friends, or maybe related. He was with him when they came to the hospital. The two of them responded to my yelling."

"Huh. " Dennis said. "Well, mysteries and mayhem aside, I've still got a full schedule. You ought to get yourself home, David. I think you're cleared to go."

"I will. But I'll stick around a while, at least until I'm sure he'll come through.."

Dennis nodded. He turned to leave, stopping at the door. "Glad you're alright, Bowman...but I'd be a little cautious. I know you feel you owe this guy, but the reality is, you don't really know who he is or what he's been up to. Just a little friendly advice." He was gone before David could reply.

* * *

Sam turned to him in concern. "Everything ok?"

He tried to sound nonchalant, but David was a lousy liar. "Yeah. Dennis was just remarking on Dean's injuries." He sat down beside Sam and sighed. He was feeling decidedly bruised, and deeply out of his element. "But I think we might consider getting him out of here sooner than later. A lot of questions are being asked, and I'm worried that...well, I don't want to see anything else happen to your brother." He left the rest unsaid, and Sam knew exactly what he was thinking.

"Hell, I don't either. How 'bout we spring me right now?" Dean said it so quietly, but both of his watchers were startled.

"Dean! Wow, how are you feeling?" Sam asked stupidly.

He answered as David checked him over. "Crappy." he whispered shallowly. He caught David's eye as he leaned over. "Hard to breathe-"

"You still have some fluid and blood in your lung. You'll expel it eventually. Don't resist the urge to cough, even if it hurts." David assured.

Dean nodded weakly. "Water..?"

"Not yet; here-" David gave him a glycerine tipped stick, placing it in his mouth to ease his thirst.

Dean spat it out with a grimace, wanting to voice a complaint but too tired to do so. He shut his eyes wearily, beginning to feel his punctured side as the anesthetic effect waned. He opened them again. "You guys ok..?"

They assured him in unison.

"..and Johan?"

"I got rid of anything left, Dean. As far as anyone knows, the attack was random, and he got away. And fyi; you and I are strangers to David, we only came because we heard him, ok? I answered all the cops questions, they seemed satisfied. You're in here under the name William Holly."

He grimaced, and closed his eyes again, murmuring, "Tell me all that again later, I won't remember any of it.".

They stayed with him until he was moved out of recovery and into a ward. At that point, David left Sam, having to attend to some details. Sam knew he had to stick close, not that he would even consider leaving at this point. But Dean had a way of just...saying things, while drugged. If anyone heard anything strange, and it reached the wrong ears, it could be a serious danger to their continued freedom.

Dean knew it too. After several hours, he had moved from bleary discomfort to serious pain. They'd come with sheduled painkillers, and he pretended to take them, but in reality, he tucked them under his blanket for later. He couldn't let his drugged ramblings put David at risk now. He whispered curt, one syllable answers to Sam's gentle questions, finally ceasing speech altogether. He was tapping a foot in agitation, arms hugged tight. His brow was creased with strain, and he shifted and let out a soft moan.

"Dean, you ok? Should I call a nurse?" Sam asked anxiously.

He shook his head. He wasn't about to tell him why he was hurting as much a he was, but he didn't want to make a show of it in front of Sam either. He concentrated on relaxing his features. "I'm fine. Actually, I could use something warm to drink. Would you mind heading down and getting me something?"

Sam frowned. "You sure? I mean.."

"Go already."

Sam knew it was pointless to argue, and he was glad to do something useful. He hastily went out to fulfil the request. As soon as he was gone, Dean covered his eyes and swore softly over and over, a quiet but fervent mantra of pain. The hurt was so deep and relentless that he wanted to vomit. He knew it would fade, it always did, he just had to get through it. He filled his mind with a favourite old song, mouthing the words in the vain hope of distraction. He didn't hear it when the doctor called Dennis came in.

The surgeon pulled up a chair. "How are we making out?"

Dean pulled his hand away, wiping his eyes dry with the motion. "Can't speak for you, Doc, but I'm ok, considering." he lied. He was caught off guard, alarmed to see someone he didn't know, and his guard rose immediately.

Dr. Dennis stared at him. It made Dean even more nervous. "Well good...good. You had a close call there. Not your first though, is it?"

Dean smiled warily. "I've had worse."

"I see that. So tell me, William...how did you acquire those nasty burns?"

Dean's double-take was almost comical. "Oh these? " he recovered. "IRS. I filed late...they get pretty serious about that shit."

Dr. Dennis crossed his arms. "IRS...uh huh. You know, I can have an Atlanta police officer posted outside the door, just in case, for your safety. You sure about that?"

Dean was sweating now. He didn't need this, not now. "Ok, you got me. It was my ex. Serious anger management issues there. Had to get a restraining order."

Dr. Dennis stood up. "I get it. You don't want to tell me. Hell, why should you? None of my business. And don't get me wrong; I'm grateful that you saved my colleague. David Bowman is a well respected and valuable member of our staff. But I'll tell you this much; if you endanger him or any other staff now through your associations, or tarnish the reputation of this hospital, I'll throw you to the cops a lot faster you can tap-dance around my simple questions."

Dean felt a tell-tale prickling sensation in his face. A hiss was rising in his ears, he was in no state to deal with this and he was growing faint. This man wasn't stupid. And if he could see through Dean's stories, then the authorities would too. He swallowed hard. "What do you want from me then?" he whispered.

Dr. Dennis was not without compassion. It was his hands that had worked to save this individual. But he was also a harsh realist. "I want you out of here, as soon as possible. I don't know who you are or what you represent, but I'm fielding questions already that I don't have an answer for, you understand? Your story may seem heroic and straight-forward right now in the papers, but you and I both know that if deeper digging happens, there will be complications for the hospital, and for all of us. I don't want to see that kind of negative press."

Dean knew that the man was fishing. But he had the right fishing hole, and they both knew it. He shut his eyes against the spinning view and nodded wordlessly.

Dennis softened then. He realized the state of his patient, and above all else, his recovery was still his responsibility. The man he knew as William was starkly pale; he was sweating. His breathing was laboured and rapid and he was clearly in pain. The surgeon leaned closer, and patted Dean's shoulder. "We understand each other. You'll vacate that bed as soon as possible, and as quietly. But not now, though, ok? Not tonight. I'm pretty sure you would pass out no more than a couple of feet from this door. Let your meds work, get some rest. The police will wait at least that long for their answers. But they'll be wanting access to you tomorrow at some point I'll hold them off as long as I can."

Dean's mouth was too dry for a response. He met the surgeon's eye and simply nodded again. The doctor filled a bedside cup with cool water, holding it for Dean, who took a few shaking sips before laying his head back down. Dennis frowned. He felt for the man. William Holly, or whatever his name was, was in rough shape. But the hospital didn't need any scandal right now; they were in the middle of a much needed funding drive. Satisfied, but feeling like a cad, he left.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Sam returned, arms laden with styrofoam cups and whatever magazines he thought Dean might read. He glanced around, assured that the few other ward residents were sleeping. He noticed that the curtain had been drawn most of the way around Dean's bed. He put his things down and pulled his chair up, alarmed at Dean's state. His brother looked ashen, even moreso than previously. He was shiny with sweat.

"Dean..?" he asked with quiet concern.

Dean turned and answered. "Surgeon was here."

Sam sat down. "What did he say? Is everything ok?"

Dean swallowed drily, pressing his head back against the bleached white pillow. "Not really."

Sam leaned forward and forgot to breathe. "What do you mean-are you in danger? Did they miss something?! I should find David-"

"No! No...not that. I'm... It's not about me, not directly. It just turns out he's not blind, or stupid. He saw right through the bullshit, Sam. He figures there's alot more going on here. I could hardly argue, considering. He was asking stuff, and I couldn't give him any answers. He's a step up from David, and he's all about the hospital's reputation, about the public funding. He told me he didn't want to know anything more, all he cares about are the optics here. He doesn't want any kind of bad press right now. They're in the middle of some sort of drive for community money, and he can't afford to have anything screw it up."

"Meaning?!"

"Meaning he's invited me to get the hell out as soon as I can."

Sam sat back, incredulous. "What?! Are you serious? Where is this sonofabitch, I wanna have a word-"

"No, Sam! Settle down-"

Sam was on his feet, his fury rising. "This is nuts! This is bullshit, you need time to heal, and after what you did to protect people-"

"Would you just shut up for a minute?!" Dean winced at the effort it had taken to raise his voice. He continued in a strained tone. "He did me a favour, ok? Sure, it was a little back-handed, but it was a valuable heads-up either way. He warned me that cops would be here in the morning, with a whole lot of new questions that I likely can't answer to anybody's satisfaction. You understand? Christ, Sam; the last thing I want to do right now is haul my shredded carcass out of this bed right now, believe me. But I don't have any choice. If I stay here 'til morning, I'll have to get past a gauntlet of badges, and we both know where that scenario ends up. It's in our best interest, and David's too, if I'm awol when they show up."

Sam blanched at the threat of the authorities. He sat back down, rubbing his hand over his face. "Still, Dean...after what you just went through, I don't think it's worth the risk to move you...do you? I mean; you're weak, you're..."

Dean sighed. "I know all that, Sam. I doubt I could get up and walk out of here at this minute. But as I said...it's not like it's my choice here. I'm going to need some clothes, the stuff I was wearing was so bloody and cut-up it was probably turfed. You're going to have to go back to David's for a clean shirt and pants and stuff. It ought to take you a half hour or so. By the time you get back I should be a little less out of it." He reached for the coffee that Sam had put at his bedside, needing the caffeine.

Sam watched his hand shake violently as he grasped the cup. He steadied it for him as Dean tried to bring it to his mouth. "Have you seen David? Does he know about this?"

Dean shook his head and sipped a little at the hot liquid.

A voice surprised them. "Does David know what?" The curtain pulled back, and the man himself stood there now. He slipped between Sam's chair and the edge of the bed, reaching down to touch his patient's brow.

Dean jerked away and glared at him. "Stop it and listen. Your boss came by. It wasn't a social call. Bottom line is that I'm unofficially persona-non-grata. He says thanks for saving his staff, and don't let the doors hit me on the way out."

David was shocked. "Dennis...he said that? Are you sure? Maybe you misunderstood-''

Dean sighed in pained impatience. "David, his bootprint is on my ass, ok? He's not an idiot; he knows something way bigger is going on here. He's worried about the press, and the police. He wants me out of here before morning because cops will be coming back here. And I agree with him on that. If he's already got doubts and questions, then so will they. It's not just our asses on the line here, it's your whole damned career, David. If the shit hits the fan, and they make a connection between us, you can kiss everything you've worked so hard for good-bye. I won't let that happen; I swear to god, even if it means I have to crawl out of here holding in my own innards in!"

They knew that tone They knew the set of his jaw. Dean would leave tonight whether they sanctioned it or not. And the bitter pill was that the threat to all of them was compelling enough to let him.

David sat down, sighing miserably. "Christ!" he growled. He looked up and met Dean's eye, holding it for a moment. "Do you really think this is the thing to do? I know you can handle a lot, and this isn't new territory for you. But you were dangerously close to being eulogized. Do you feel up to this? And no bullshit please; if I'm going to cart your ragged hide back to my house, I need to prepare."

The expression in Dean's eyes was so raw for a moment that it made David want to weep or howl in rage. But Dean covered it just as quickly. "Do I feel up to this? Not particularly. Pretty irrelevant though, isn't it? It hurts like a bitch and I want to be unconscious for a couple of days, or weeks. But park me in front of the tube with my buddy Johnny Walker and I'll feel a helluva lot better. In the meantime, give me half hour of peace while you two arrange what I need and I figure I can make it out to the car without being too much of a sideshow. Is that good enough?"

David unwound the stethoscope from around his neck. "Just shut up for a minute." He listened intently as Dean was instructed to breathe. His patient's shallow, careful inhaling offered a symphony of sound, but at least both sides were functioning equally. He then forced Dean to allow him access to his incision, and he examined it in grim silence. He checked everything, and all was within acceptable limits under the circumstances. But it hardly assuaged David's worries. He put his equipment back around his neck and stepped back. "Alright. I guess this is the way this is going, despite reason or logic. If this doesn't kill you then I swear nothing will. Here, Sam-" He handed his house keys over. "I'll gather some supplies while you go get his stuff. Do you remember the route?"

"I think so."

"Good. Get back here as quickly as you can. And watch you don't let the dog out, he's a damned houdini at the door. The sooner we get Dean settled at the house, the sooner we can all relax a little."

"Not going to your house." Dean stated quietly.

David pressed his hand to his eyes, nearly at the end of his rope. "Winchester, I have a brutal headache and a dog crapping on my carpet as we speak. What the hell are you talking about now?"

"Your place is too dangerous. It's got to be a motel or something, somewhere out of the way."

David swore. "No! No way! You can't go into some moldy, germ-infested roach-motel, not in your state! You're not even thinking clearly!"

Dean pulled himself up a little straighter. "Listen to me! I apreciate what you're doing here, but you're the one not thinking clearly! Your boss has suspicions, the cops have suspicions; everybody has questions! Who's to say they won't be coming around to your door when they start looking for their answers? Jesus, David, maybe your seed is still rattled; you've got to see that we can't be anywhere near you in case that happens! Your whole life, your career, everything you've worked for is at stake! I already ruined three lives through all this, I'll be damned if I'm going to be the cause of you losing everything too!"

David stood, sputtering with frustration. But he took a breath and to his credit, he put it aside for the moment. He would talk to Sam, privately...Sam would back him up. In the meantime, they needed to get this underway. David was hardly convinced that Dean could manage to walk out, but he'd seen his stubborn friend rise to the occasion many times, in conditions that would make any other man crumple in defeat. "Fine. Whatever. Let's just do this then."

Sam left them as he went to fulfill his errand. David still had to load up on pilfered medical supplies, and it would take a little time. He stood uncertainly, about to leave, but stopped, again checking that the other ward patients were oblivious. He sat again at Dean's side, and spoke with a quiet earnestness. "Dean...do really think you can do this? No, hear me out! You tell me I'm not being realistic, but are you? You know, that wound was damned close to being fatal. You just happened to be lucky in that it happened here in a hospital; if it had been anywhere else, you'd probably be a dead man."

Dean shut his eyes momentarily, trying to tune him out. His side was aching so fiercely that he couldn't stifle his groan. "Keep harping at me like that, Doc, and I might just decide to kick-off for the peace and quiet."

David bit back his reproach. Dean was clearly in pain, his lecturing could wait. "You shouldn't be feeling this so hard right now. I'm concerned about that. When did you get your meds?"

Dean slipped a hand under his blanket and retrieved the pills. "I didn't take them. I couldn't risk getting doped up and babbling all kinds of stuff that people shouldn't hear."

David was appalled. "Well take them now, for christ's sake! I'm here, I'll shut you up if it becomes an issue, I promise!"

Dean let them roll from his open hand. "Can't. Gotta get up and walk out of here in a little while. It'll be hard enough to walk straight without being high on whatever that is."

They were powerful narcotics. David knew he was probably right. He collected them, vowing he would force-feed them to Dean the second they were clear of the hospital doors.

Dean turned to him. "You should get going, David. Dr. Douchebag shouldn't see you talking to me. Get what you need and wait for us in the car, ok? Sam's a big unit; he can manage to get me up and keep me walking until we get outside. He'll be back soon, and with all the security cameras around this place I want you far away when I slip out of here. Don't give me more grief, you know I'm right."

"Well, you're always right, aren't you Winchester?!" the doc growled.

"Damn straight! Now get lost. Give me my half hour of rest; if I know you are safely waiting in the parking lot, I can relax for a bit."

David couldn't argue with that. Rest was exactly what Dean needed. He reluctantly left him then.

Dean was glad David hadn't asked him one last time if he was sure he wanted to do this. He wasn't. He was in enough pain that it frightened him a little to think of leaving the antiseptic safety of this place, no matter how much he hated it. But as he kept telling them, it wasn't like he had a whole lot of options. Alone in the quiet, he shut his eyes in relief. He forced himself to relax, and tried to steer his mind away from the sticky, screaming sutures in his side. -_It'll be alright- _he told himself over and over. When he half-believed it, he drifted off in exhausted sleep.

* * *

It seemed like only seconds had passed when he felt Sam gently urging him to wake. He groaned. "Aw, man, already? What, did you drive at a hundred both ways?"

Sam sat beside him for a moment. "No. I drove safely. It's been a couple of hours, Dean. I've been here most of the time, but we waited because you needed the rest."

Dean blinked in disbelief. "Seriously?! What time is it?"

"Around 4:30 in the morning. David is ready for you, he's waiting out in the parking lot now. It's pretty quiet in the halls, do you want to try to get up?"

Dean forced the cobwebs from his sluggish brain. With renewed awareness came fear. "Yeah...yeah, it's nearly morning. You shouldn't have let me sleep!"

Sam said nothing. When he had returned earlier with Dean's clothing, and watched his brother resting peacefully, there was no way he was going to pull him out at that moment. Dr. Dennis and the world could go to hell.

Dean rubbed his eyes and sighed. He began to pull himself up carefully, and Sam grasped him under his arms to help. Once he was sitting up, he rested there until he was sure he could maintain it. Sam carefully withdrew the IV from his hand, while Dean pulled the nasal cannula away.

"How are you doing?"

"Lovely. Perfect. Give me my shirt."

Sam deftly pulled his tee-shirt over his bandaged torso.. He then drew socks on each foot, then slipped his jeans on up to his calves.

Not about to accept being dressed like a child, Dean pushed him away. "I can do the rest." he growled. He let his feet take his weight for a moment as he grasped the waist band and pulled, shuddering at the effort. He buttoned them, and slumped back down with a quiet curse. Sam hung a warm fleece jacket over his shoulders, and Dean slipped his arms through the sleeves. and zipped it up. His shoes were next, and Sam had wisely grabbed a well-worn baseball cap as well. Dean jammed it on and pulled it down low. He looked up, wan but determined. "Ok. Now or never I guess." With a hand on his brother's shoulder, Dean stood slowly. The steady ache in his chest blossomed into something sharply insistent, and he dropped again to the bed edge. When it settled back down to the point where he could breathe again, he tried once more. This time he held his position. "Okay. Go."

* * *

Sam steered him out of the room and into the hall. He was relieved that they were making their way wthout hindrance, but he was ready for anything. Dean silently and stoically walked, one foot carefully placed after the other. They'd gone twenty feet or so when he faltered.

"Slow down-"

Sam felt his brother's grip tighten on his arm. He stopped and asked quietly if he needed to go back.

"No.." he said unconvincingly. But he said it again with more conviction. "Just give me a sec. I can't...I can't see anything." He was blacking out, his vision darkening in an unhappily familiar pattern. He stood weaving for a moment, breathing as deeply as he could, until it began to pass. Sam saw the sweat shining on his skin, and he readied himself to catch him if he dropped. "Lean on me, Dean. I've got you."

After a moment or two, Dean straighted up and nodded. "Let's go, fast, or I won't make it...just go."

Sam understood. He'd experienced the verge of a faint before. He knew that Dean could move the short remaining distance before the hiss and darkness overtook him completely. They walked swiftly now, nervously passing a few other people, none of whom seemed to notice them, engrossed as they were in their own tragedies. Dr. Dennis stood at the nurses' station, and he looked up and caught Sam's eye. He made no acknowledgement, and looked away, returning to his conversation with the nurse. The brothers didn't slow until they were outside the doors in the cool night air. Dean took a few staggering steps further, then let go. He slipped, limp, into Sam's ready arms. David had been waiting anxiously outside, he rushed up and helped Sam, and they got him to the car. He was fully unconscious now, and they manovered him in onto the rear seat and shut the door.

"My car's running." David said. "Follow me."

* * *

David had heard Dean out while he was in the hospital, and he'd agreed to his motel demand. But once they were safely on the road, he took charge. He drove decisively, and after a time, Sam became aware of familiar milestones. He glanced at David's car, then searched for his phone and dialed his number.

David expected it. He answered in a low tone "_I don't give a shit what he says, Sam. I am not dumping him in some rat hole. I'm a big boy and I am well aware of the risks."_

Sam agreed and hung up. He was relieved. He had deep fears that Dean would be harmed by the decision to lay low in some cheap and unhealthy surrounds. He didn't want David to be in harm's way, but there were more pressing worries. When the cars stopped, they were once again in his driveway.

It was late. The street was deserted. David got out and opened his front door, as Sam attended to the tricky task of waking his brother and filling him in to the decisions that had been made for him. When Dean had gotten past the bleary confusion, he was angry. But he was in no shape now to demand anything other than a bed. He vowed to take it up with the two of them later, but in the meantime he had to swallow his pride and accept the help he needed to get out of the car. His chest and side were raging with the pain of his deep wound, and all he wanted now was some blessed relief.

They got him in and quickly laid him out in the guest bedroom on the first floor. David had Sam rearrange the vehicles. His pickup had to be taken out of the garage, so that the conspicuous Impala could take its place. While Sam did so, he set Dean up with his necessities. Mayhem barked and danced underfoot, and David finally had to push the dog out of the room and shut the door. He worked at setting up Dean's IV and looped an oxygen tube around his ears. Dean was moaning softly, which was unusual. He was alarmingly pale, his lean face taut with pain. and he accepted David's attentions without complaint. When he was satisfied that Dean had what he needed, David got him some water and his long-overdue painkillers. This time, Dean took them gladly.

"Thanks, David." he finally said, lying back wearily. "You're probably right about this." he gestured at the room. "But just for a day or two, right..?"

David smiled. "Sure buddy. A day or two." He yawned widely, aware of his own limitations, and sat on the bed for a moment. "Those will take the edge off pretty fast. I don't want you to worry, ok? I doubt anyone will be coming round. I'm booked off for a week, no one wants to see a surgeon who looks like a bar-brawler anyway. And if we do get visitors, your door locks from the inside. You'll have all the privacy you need, so relax and get stronger. That's the whole point of this, right?"

Dean nodded wearily. "Man...I wish things were different." he said quietly.

David chuckled softly. "Hell, who doesn't? That sentiment is pretty universal." He waited there, until Dean's pinched look began to soften. "Anything you need before I collapse in my clothes on my bed?"

"No. You've been really...you've been great, David. As always. I'm ok, just send Sam in when he's done. I need to talk to him."

David nodded. He patted Dean's arm awkwardly, and opened the door. Mayhem fell into the room, having been standing and scratching furiously all the while his master was in there. David caught the scruffy creature mid-air before he could complete his leap onto the bed. He tried to avoid the affectionately darting tongue as he tucked the wriggling dog under his arm.

"Your dog's a retard." Dean said, smiling a little.

"Yeah, I know it. It's his only charm. Get some rest, Dean. I sure will be. But call me if you feel anything that's a worry, or you need anything..."

Dean nodded, closing his eyes. David took the opportunity to safely leave him.

* * *

He met Sam in the hallway. "He's settled in. Do you want a hand with anything before I turn in?"

Sam shook his head. "No. You've done plenty. Thanks, David...for everything."

"Ditto. I'm done, I'm going to bed. Dean wanted to see you before you did. There's fresh towels in the bathroom, and uh.." He trailed off, too tired to concentrate.

Sam looked at him, suddenly reminded of the beating David had sustained. He'd forgotten, after everything else. "Thanks, David, I'll be fine. How about you...should I be waking you every few hours or anything?"

David touched his bandaged nose gingerly. "Only if you want a matching shiner. No, I'm ok, Sam...no concussion to speak of. Just sore and tired. Good night. Tomorrow will be a better day, I can pretty much guarantee it."

Sam nodded in hopeful agreement. He watched David go, and turned back to go and see Dean. The door was closed and he eased it open carefully. Deans eyes were closed, and he looked comfortable. Sam came in and sat for a moment in the easy chair in the corner.

"So what is this motel called?" Dean asked, opening his eyes halfway.

Sam grinned sheepishly. "The Physician's Arms. I heard good things."

"Hmm. Hey, are you ok? You took a shit-kicking yourself back there."

Sam assured him he was fine. He could see that Dean was already much more relaxed now. He surmised that David had given him something. "Yeah, I'll be hitting the sack hard soon. But not 'til I know you're ok."

Dean smiled, genuinely, and with an ease that was a rarity. It was a beautiful thing after all the recent trauma. "I'm ok now. Gonna kick your ass tomorrow, for dragging me here, instead of a safe dive somewhere. But I feel better now anyway. David gave me something, and it's damned good. Is the car out of view?"

"Yeah. I parked it in the garage and pulled a tarp over it just in case." The difference in Dean was remarkable. He figured the drug was kicking in, and he was relieved. He watched him for a moment. "It's going to be ok, Dean. You know that, right? Johan is dead. David is ok, and so am I. You just need to let yourself heal. As soon as you are stronger, we'll head out. We're all ok now."

Dean cocked his head. "Okaaay. Thanks for the little pep-talk there, Sammy. But trust me, I..."

He trailed off, as the drugs washed over his nervous system. He blinked his half closed eyes and frowned. "Mmm...forgot what I was saying."

Sam smiled. "It's okay. I've probably heard it before. Go to sleep, Dean. I'm right outside the door, ok? Call me for anything."

"Okie dokie. 'Night, Sammy."

"Goodnight Dean."

* * *

Once he knew his brother was settled, and comfortable, Sam hit a wall of exhaustion. He wanted nothing more than to still his thoughts and drift into beautiful oblivion. He was grateful for David's sacrifices. But he had no intention of separating himself from Dean by a full storey right now. He quietly took the stairs, and once in his room, he pulled the comforter from his bed. He bundled it into a ball and headed back down. In the livingroom, he picked the longer of the two sofas and lay down, pulling the quilt over himself. He settled, welcoming the quiet. It took little time for sleep to overtake his concerns. He felt guilty, but he was beyond exhaustion himself, and he knew his brother and his friend were in the same boat. He listened for a while to the silence of the house. It was empty and peaceful...and it was beautiful.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Morning came late. Technically, it was afternoon. Sam was up first. He already knew the workings of David's kitchen, and he set the coffee brewing. He knew it would take ten minutes, and he availed himself of the shower while it worked. By the time the beep sounded, he was back down, somewhat refreshed and needing a fix. He inhaled the warm, rich scent appreciatively as he poured himself a mugful. David was, by his own admission, a lousy cook, but his saving grace was that he bought good coffee. It had been a an uncomfortable night for the younger Winchester. He could pretty much sleep on anything, but despite his tiredness, he found himself on guard, listening for sounds of distress from his brother's room, for the better part of the night. He rubbed his puffy eyes as he sipped at his cup. It had been relatively quiet; David had given Dean something that let him relax. But there were still moments; sounds and movement, that told Sam that Dean was in some unhappy realm. Sleep was a haven, but it could also be a hell, and he knew what nightmares Dean could conjure. Some of them, anyway. He stole into the room several times, when a sound alerted him. He would talk softly, gently touching Dean's damp brow until his face relaxed, and the creatures haunting his subconscious retreated again into the shadows. At such times Sam was grateful that he didn't wake. It would have been awkward to explain his tender attentions. Dean wore a facade of iron, but Sam knew the soft core that was beneath the hard shell. It needed other protection, beyond the armour. The rare times it was exposed, that was when Sam could really help him. Most of the time he felt weak and useless.

But the last few hours had been quiet. Sam sprawled on the couch, and he flipped the television on, watching lazily as the mundane struggles of the rest of humanity were reported. He listened with half an ear. When David appeared beside him, he startled.

"Coffee?" the doctor grunted.

"Sit down, I'll bring it to you."

David dropped into his easy chair. Mayhem, who had slept with him for the night, was already busy and expecting to be entertained. The wiry dog barked sharply, wriggling in anticipation until David found his lacrosse ball and tossed it down the hall. It occupied him for a half a second, and he retrieved it and dropped it into David's terry-robed lap. The doc groaned. "For shit's sake, dog; can't you make your own fun?"

Mayhem cocked his head, as if the concept was absurd.

Sam handed him his mug. "Do you really want him to? I've seen what he comes up with to fill his time."

David nodded. "Good point." But he petted the dog's head with a smile, and the dog grinned back. When Sam rejoined him, he asked the million dollar question. "How was he?"

"Not bad. A few moments, but mostly quiet. I checked on him about fifteen minutes ago and he was still sleeping."

David nodded. "Good. He needed that. Should have been in the damned hospital..." The rest didn't need saying. He was still deeply angry with his colleague. It had kept him awake for a good part of the night. He'd tried and tried to see it from Dennis's perspective, but he just couldn't. No one should be pushed prematurely out of a hospital bed into the cold, no matter what their situation was. But he was also aware of the fact that he had a much deeper understanding of what Dean regularly sacrificed for the greater good, and Dennis knew nothing of that contribution. And Dennis Churchill was a dedicated physician, who held the public's health in high regard. He only wanted to keep the hospital working smoothly, and public funding was key to that goal.

Sam read his mind. He had similar feelings. "Your boss, Dennis...he's pretty focused."

David sighed. "Sam, you and I are on the same page, but you have to see his side of it. He's been given a huge task with this public funding drive. He's paranoid about public perception. He feels any controversy translates into reduced contributions, and that turns into a stressed hospital system."

"I hear you, David. It all sounds reasonable. But I don't feel it from you."

David snorted wryly. "I'll let you know when I buy that party line. But Dennis only has a partial view. I can hardly blame him for his outlook if he doesn't have all the facts."

Sam nodded in silence. He understood that. He lived with the knowledge that very few people had the facts that they were privy to. It was just one more facet of their complicated existence.

David continued. "It's too bad we couldn't tell the real side to this. For one thing I think you and your brother would come out as pretty damned heroic. It'd be about time...I will never understand what draws you guys into this. You never get any thanks, you get nothing but pain and stress and threat in return."

Sam knew exactly what he was saying. "Well, as you know, I tried my damnedest to run away from this particular public service. I left Dean to slog away at everything; Dad, our history, and all the evil things out there, while I pretended that the world really was just normal and simple and...safe But the thing is, David; you just can't un-know this reality once you're aware of it. I envy everybody that goes through life in happy oblivion to the dangers that lurk in the dark. Hell, life is complicated enough. But once you do know what's out there, you can't exactly pretend it isn't there. Especially when that other side knows you by name, and is gunning or you. For us, it's getting to the point of kill-or-be-killed, there are so many factions putting bounties on our heads."

David watched him with a deep sadness. He sipped at the remains in his cup, thinking. Finally he spoke. "Do you hunters ever...I don't know, retire? Do you all have to die trying? I mean; I know that lions and tigers and bears are out there, but I don't necessarily have to defeat them all. I'll just avoid the woods, and we never have to deal with each other."

Sam smiled at the comparison, it was so naive. "C'mon, David; you've experienced enough now through us to know that that's not a fair comparison. Your lions and tigers and bears are natural, and they only kill to survive. What we hunt is beyond the natural realm. They're abominations. They kill for pleasure, or for fun. Or they're tortured spirits that are locked in loops, that need to be freed to continue on to their intended destinations. This has nothing to do with natural order."

David nodded. Sam was right of course. "Ok, fine...bad example. But still, Sam, why you? Why Dean? Can't you just...walk away at some point? Can you not pass the torch on? Do you have to... ?" He couldn't say the rest.

"Do we have to die on the battlefield?"

"Yeah."

Sam sighed, swirling his last cold sip of coffee. "I hope not, David. I really do. Dean may project a certain gung-ho image, but I know what's in his heart. I know that despite anything he says, his happy place is at some tidy, perfect little old white house somewhere. Some place where things are simple and good. Uncomplicated. It's Dean's picket fence fantasy. A wife, kids maybe...the whole "happily ever after" ideal. I hope he gets there someday...but I wouldn't bet the farm on it."

David measured his next words. "You've talked about Dean. But what about you, Sam? What's in your future?"

"Me? Christ... I just don't know. If it were all just straight forward good vs evil stuff, I might have a clearer idea. But sometimes...with my history, with the legacy I've inherited...I don't know which side I'll end up on. And I worry that maybe Dean's final moments will be in my own hands."

His candour shocked David. "Sam!" he stammered, "You can't really think that! Jesus, I don't think I've ever met a more principled and moral guy than you. You think everything into painful, tight knots. Surely you could never believe that anything that was done to you in the past would define you forever?! I don't know everything, but I know enough about it, and I swear to god, I'd never believe for a second that you were hopelessly tainted! Your own battles might ultimately be harder, but-" He was at a loss for words. He stared at Sam, seeing the raw pain ingrained on the young man's features.

It warmed Sam to hear David's declarations, but his own doubts and fears were far too deeply seated to be swayed. He changed the subject. "Well-" he yawned, "It probably won't even be the Devil's end-game that does us in anyway. I'll die of an aneurism in the Impala from pounding my head on the dash after one too many hours of his damned mullet-rock, And Dean will be offed by some jealous husband or boyfriend, after another night of his own brand of escapism."

David let him have his pass. It was all too deep and too convoluted to solve this morning. He chuckled. "Yeah, that sounds about right." He got up and stretched, then headed toward Dean's room. "I'll go check on him."

* * *

Dean was awake when David entered. The door was open a third of the way so that Sam could hear him in the night. The doc saw that he had an arm curled around a furry, coiled body on the bed. The dog's tail began to thump. David was appalled. "Oh for christ's sake! Sorry, Dean," he said. He moved to shoo Mayhem from his chosen place.

Dean stopped him. "Leave him, it's ok." he said softly. "He's warm."

David began his round of checks. When he was finished, and reasonably satisfied, he sat and patted the dog. "Germy little bugger. So how do you feel, Dean? Any pain that we need to address? Breathing issues? Hungry?"

Dean smiled a little. He appreciated David's attentions as much as they annoyed him. "I'm doing okay, considering. And yeah, I could eat. Did I smell coffee..?"

"You did. I'll get you a cup. Did you sleep alright?"

Dean yawned. "It was a start. Whatever you gave me did the trick. Hardly felt anything." He scratched absent-mindedly at his burn-scabbed forearm as he spoke. They were healing, and as a result, they were maddeningly itchy.

"Stop that or I'll tape oven mitts on your hands."

Dean mouthed something unflattering, but he dropped his hand back down. "Is Sam up?"

David nodded. "Long before I was. You can thank him for the coffee. It's well past noon, by the way. Nobody has come by, and no calls. Looks like the world is screwing off for the day."

Dean closed his eyes momentarily. "Good." He pulled himself up from horizontal with a pained grimace, resting a hand lightly over his sutured wound. He coughed, and tears sprang to his eyes. When he caught his breath he frowned, spitting into a tissue that David offered. "How long will I be horking up this rust?"

"Not too long. Need some water?"

Dean nodded, accepting the glass. He swallowed a good bit, feeling parched. When he was sated he lay back again. "Thanks." He looked David over "Holy crap, David; have you looked in a mirror this morning?"

"Uh huh. I saw. You guys should take a shot of me while I'm a raccoon, it will fade fast enough. Maybe I can parlay it into some pity action from Ellen."

Dean winced. "Too much sharing, Doc. I feel nauseous enough as it is."

David was instantly concerned. "Do you? Really?'

"No man. I'm just yanking your chain."

"Oh. Well cut it out. I'm wounded too, remember? I don't have the stamina for Winchester humour."

* * *

Both looked up as Sam entered with a coffee for the patient. He looked to David, who nodded his permission. Sam opened his mouth to ask how he was feeling but Dean, of course, beat him to it.

"Everything ok Sam?"

Sam smiled wryly. "This from the guy with the tubes and bandages."

"You didn't answer me, Sam. Are you ok after everything?"

He sighed, exasperated. "Yeah, Dean. I'm fine, just stiff and sore. I'm not going to bother even asking you the same question." Instead he turned to David. "How is he, Doc?"

David snorted. "Difficult as usual. But everything is healing. I'm going to go make something for breakfast. Or lunch now, I guess." He left the brothers alone.

Dean hiked himself up a little further. "Did you check outside? Have you been watching?"

"It's been quiet, Dean. No black and whites, no visitors. Not even any calls."

He still wasn't satisfied. "What about the news, were you watching?"

Sam sighed. "No more mention of anything. Old news now, Dean. They've moved on to the next story."

"Good." He was fidgeting, shifting where he lay, a frown creasing his brow. He kept glancing out the window, searching for shadows beyond the drawn sheers. Sam knew what was behind it.

"We're not leaving today, Dean. I can read your mind, and you can forget it right now!"

Dean glared at him. "Sam, I'm not going to put David in the crosshairs! We have to get out of here; you of all people ought to know that!"

Sam had expected this. He held his ground. "Nope. Sorry, Dean, but you don't get your way this time. I talked to David for a long time about this and he's adamant. He knows what he's doing, ok? And he doesn't think it's nearly as risky as you do. So just relax, because both of us will pin you down if you try to leave now."

Dean was furious. He was sure that neither of them had a clue. He swore, and sat up and began to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Sam leapt to his feet to stop him, but he needn't have. The reality of his situation became very apparent to Dean. He stifled a sound and reached for his bandaged side. The deep flash of pain that came with his motion sent a shudder through him, and he sat, swaying for a moment. He barely felt his brother's hands gently laying him back down. It was a classic I-told-you-so moment, but Sam let it go. He sat in silence until Dean opened his eyes again. "Leave me alone-go help David." Dean rasped. Sam was fairly sure that the message had gotten through to him, at least for now. He sighed and left Dean alone.

* * *

David had eggs in a frying pan. Sam came up and began to separate the bacon strips. David looked at him and knew the gist of the young man's conversation with his brother. They continued cooking the meal in silence, and when it was ready, the toast buttered and the bacon drained, they divided it up between the three plates and headed back in to the guest bedroom. Dean was lying back, and had his eyes closed as if in sleep. But the scent of breakfast was too strong, he had to acknowledge it. He was hungry, regardless of anything else.

"BLT's, compliments of the motel" David announced. He handed one to the patient. He'd taken the time to cut it up into small pieces, so that Dean could eat it without struggle. He did so, wolfing it down in silence. When he was done, Sam took the plate away, pleased. At least his appetite had returned. When they were finished, the doc collected the plates and went to the kitchen.

"Better now?" Sam asked carefully.

Dean nodded. Sam remembered something, and he went to the hall closet to retrieve it from his coat. When he returned, he dropped a shiny object onto the bed. "Check that out," he said with a smile.

Dean picked it up, turning it in his fingers. "Gold?"

"Looks like it, and it's so bright yellow it must be pretty high carat."

"Where'd it come from?"

"You can't guess? Look at it, Dean; it's all heat fused."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Sonofabitch. It was his, wasn't it; Johan's?"

"He was wearing it when he roasted. Ought to be worth at least a grand. His contribution to the cause."

"Huh." Dean placed it on the nightstand, pleased. "At least we get something out of this clusterf~ck. The car needs front end work, and I sure as hell didn't want to go all the way to Bobby's."

Sam looked at him. "We got more than that, Dean. Come on...we rid the world of one dangerous blood-sucker. He'd been around for a long time, causing a lot of grief. But not anymore. We saved a ton of people from some serious misery."

_Misery...Gave some of that to a few people too._ Dean's expression clouded and he looked away. He had a lot to add to that but he stayed silent.

* * *

Five quiet days passed in that fashion. There were calls; concerned friends and colleagues. Ellen was a regular one, as was Bobby. But other than that attention, they seemed to be free of any unwanted contact. But nothing ever remained as simple as it seemed. The shit got its wings on day six.

Dean had been healing with a steady predictability. He always recovered rapidly from his various traumas, which was a blessing. For the fast few days, he'd eschewed the bedridden routine, instead favouring a place on the couch in front of David's huge flat-screen. He'd removed the IV, fearing its hindrance. He wanted to be mobile at a second's notice, and since Dean was behaving himself in his grudging agreement to stay, it was a concession David had to make.

They were lulled into complacency by the quiet and the apparent lack of threat. Dean's mood had been slowly lifting as time and distance offered some perspective. He'd been in a very dark place after the events with Iris and the vampires. He had no regrets about killing Johan, he was truly vicious and his death was long overdue. But the demise of Paul, and that of Iris, and Conrad; those were still too painful to think about, and he simply pushed those thoughts and memories down, locking the lid on the box. He spent his time watching mindless television, playing cards, and when his energy allowed it he carefully cleaned and checked his arsenal. David was an affable host, and Dean watched, quietly pleased, as his younger brother laughed frequently and relaxed._ At least Sam would come out of this ok,_ he thought with relief. He still worried for David, but the world's apparent indifference to them began to buoy him a little, and for a moment, he thought it might be alright after all.

* * *

The knock at the door shattered their peace. It was two-thirty in the afternoon, and David had just returned from picking up groceries. None of them had heard the car pull up, or the footsteps on the walk, so the sharp intrusion of the doorbell shocked them all into silence. David turned to the brothers, at once fearful. There was no way they could ignore the visitor; the television was on, and they had been speaking to each other loudly enough to be heard from the porch. David had no choice but to answer it.

Sam and Dean had already shot to their feet and ducked around the corner into the kitchen. They stood, tense and holding their breath as they heard the door open. The voices in the front hall carried well enough to hear from their vantage point, and they listened as David stammered a greeting.

"Dennis! Hello. Why are you...I mean, what can I do for you.?" He tried to sound as casual as he could, confining his guest in the front foyer.

But Dennis Churchill was adamant that he come in. He pushed past his subordinate and entered the living room. "We have to talk." he said grimly.

Dean's heart began to race. He mouthed a WTF to Sam, who met his eye with equal unease.

David invited Dennis to take a seat. The elder man did, surveying the room. There was ample evidence that more than one person had been here. Several half-filled glasses were scattered on the table, fresh deli sandwiches unwrapped and ready for consumption beside them. "Am I intruding?" Dennis asked warily.

"No! No, not at all!" David said with obviously forced nonchalance. "What's on your mind?"

Dennis cleared his throat. He was extremely ill-at-ease and it showed. "Several things, actually." he began.

David sat down, his mouth going dry. He tried to maintain his calm demeanour but he paled, and his heartrate betrayed him.

Dennis pulled a small, black item from his pocket. "Do you know what this is?"

David knew instantly. It was a cassette, of the type used by recording devices, such as surveillance cameras. "No.." he lied.

Dennis played with it distractedly. For the moment, he changed the subject. "I suppose you heard that your so-called saviour checked out early."

David feigned ignorance. "No, I hadn't! Why would he do that, he was in no shape to leave!"

Dennis ignored that. "Well, he did. Probably for the best; he was there under false identification, it turns out. The press has been relentless, trying to interview him. So have the police. I've had to disappoint both parties since he fled."

All David could muster was a weak nod. "Ah.." he said

Dean and Sam listened hard, and prayed that David would keep his cool. But the Doc was a neophyte, and was by his own description a lousy liar.

"Yes." Dennis echoed. "_Ah_ indeed. David, I'm going to ask you one more time; is there any other connection between you and this strange business? Any at all? I need to know!"

David began to sweat. He felt his face begin to flush as he stammered an answer. Dean groaned inwardly. He could picture the scene as David earnestly assured his colleague, "It's just as I told you, Dennis. I was simply attacked by this crazy man, and fortunate to be heard by others and saved."

Dennis frowned. "Well, I gave you your chance, Bowman. I wish you'd leveled with me. You were the candidate I chose for this position, you had the experience, the CV, the reputation I wanted for this hospital. I thought you were good fit. It's my ass on the line, and I just don't know what the hell you're into here!"

"What..what do you mean?"

"Don't play coy, damn it! When your friend was in recovery, you were overheard talking. The curtains were drawn, you didn't see the nurse. Well she came to me with a disturbing observation. She was sure she heard you call that patient by name, and it was not the one he came in under. She claims, David, that you called him 'Dean'."

David was dangerously close to panic. He cleared his dry throat, but his voice faltered. "I'm sure she misheard-"

"She did not. She swears you called him that name repeatedly."

David sighed, his heart sinking. "Ok..ok...let me explain, Dennis-"

"I wish to hell you would!"

Dean glanced in fear to Sam, and his insides froze as he listened.

David began. "Yes, it is true, I do know him. His connection to me goes a way back. I assure you, Dennis; he is every bit the hero he appeared. He was doing a great service that day when he fought that man off. His actions kept a lot of people from getting hurt."

"Why were you targeted?"

David sighed again. "Jesus...um, that's a little hard to explain."

"Try me."

David shifted, and clasped and unclasped his damp hands. "I..don't think I can. Look Dennis, it's a strange and tricky story. You have to believe me that it's in everyone's best interest that we drop this and pretend it never happened."

Dennis Churchill stared at David as if he was insane. "Drop this? _Drop_ it?! You were involved in a violent altercation on my watch, one where you were 'saved' by a shady character who uses an assumed name; a man who's description fits one whom the police would very much like to speak to right now! I mean, what in hell is going on here?! Are you involved in something illegal? A drug theft ring maybe? Is that it?!"

"No! No, absolutely not!"

"Well what is the deal here then, David?"

"I...I'm..." David was visibly shaking now. He was unraveling, and Dean shut his eyes and groaned.

"I can't tell you! All I can say is that I helped a man who devotes himself to protecting the rest of us from some very real and very dangerous threats. I wish I could elaborate, but I just can't! Please Dennis, you have my word; the hospital and its patients are my utmost concern-"

Dennis shook his head angrily. "Stop! Just shut up, for god's sake!" He held up the cassette now. "I asked you if you knew what this is. Well I'll tell you! That loading bay isn't on the general circuit yet, it still has an old separate surveillance system, and this is the tape that was in the camera. I've been through it a hundred times Bowman, and I just cannot believe what I am seeing!"

"I can explain-"

"Can you?! Then explain this first; it's grainy and there's alot happening, but there is one thing that is terribly clear to me! The man who attacked you; did you or did you not witness those two men burn him to death?!"

David blanched and felt like he would pass out. "No, it's not like that! You don't understand what happened!"

Dennis was shouting now, growing shrill. "I saw the image! Those men lit that poor bastard on fire and stood by while he was immolated totally! I don't care what he did, no one deserves that kind of death! It was brutal murder, plain as day!"

David was losing his own voice. "No, it's not true! I swear, no human being was burned-"

"The tape doesn't lie! Do I have to show it to you? It only took a few minutes, but he was screaming! They stood there and let him burn to ashes!"

David had nowhere to turn then. He went for broke. "He HAD to burn! He was an evil, vicious thing! He was a threat to humanity, and he needed to die!"

Dennis was speechless for a moment, beyond incredulous. "Are you some bizarre sort of vigilante?! No man should be treated-"

"He wasn't a man! He was as far from human as the devil himself!"

Dennis had expected a wild tale but this was way over the top. "Not human?! He was a man as much as you or I am, one who is now dead! He may have been some sort of violent lunatic, but nobody deserves that kind of horrific end!" The elder doctor stood up, his voice rising further. "I came here to hear your side of this before I take this to the police. I had hoped, I had really prayed that you could explain it somehow. But you and your friends set fire to someone and watched as he died, and all you can offer me is vague nonsense and outright insanity! What was he then, David; if he wasn't human? An alien? A robot? The Terminator, for christ's sake?!"

"A vampire! He was a bloody vampire!"

Dennis stood stock still. His mouth hung open. "Did I just hear you right?!"

David immediately regretted his words. Dean swore in silent and fervent dismay. David slumped wearily, knowing it was hopeless. "Yes. You did. The black figure was, as God is my witness, a vampire. And they did not set fire to him! Watch the tape again! It was the light of day that was the cause of it! The moment that door opened and the sun hit his face he started to burn! And true to his nature, he was consumed by those flames almost instantly, burned to dust in minutes! Does that sound strange to you? There was literally nothing left of him! You know that could never happen to a human body, they'd have to burn for a long time to be reduced to ash like he was! It was unnatural, Dennis! I'm telling you the truth!"

Dennis began to back away. "You are bloody certifiable, Bowman! Either that or an epic liar! Either way, you are unequivocably fired! Don't you set foot anywhere near my hospital again, and you'd better prepare your story a hell of a lot better than this, because this is going to the authorities right now!" He snatched up the tape and turned toward the foyer.

* * *

Dean had heard enough. He swore out loud this time, and reached for his jacket which was hanging on the stool behind them. He pulled his gun from his breast pocket as Sam grabbed his arm and shook his head. Dean shrugged him off and stepped out of hiding. "Don't move, you sonofabitch!" he barked sharply.

Dennis Churchill whirled around and met the muzzle of a revolver.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

"You can't do this.." Dennis stammered.

"Sure I can." Dean turned to David. "Good try, Doc, but we're a little past the explanations now."

David couldn't believe what Dean was doing, and he didn't know what to think. "Dean, for god's sake, don't do this!"

"Don't do what? The shit's hit the fan, David. We don't have any options any more." He turned to the man on whose chest he kept the gun trained. His hand was steady and unwavering, but he leaned against the doorframe as he addressed him. "Listen, Dr. Douchebag, you are way off track here. David Bowman is the best hire you ever made. The only knock on him is that he's signed on to keeping me and my brother alive when we get whumped." He sighed and switched the heavy gun to his other hand. "I didn't want to have to do this, but I don't see any other way now. You think David here is nuts, or up to his eyeballs in something weird. Well you're right, but not the way you think." He turned to Sam. "Sam, get the car started and pull it out. Looks like we've got a road trip."

Sam stared at him in alarm. "Dean, are you nuts? Now?! Why?"

"Because Dennis here needs an education and there's only one place that he can get it. We have to go to where we left Paul."

Both Sam and David understood what Dean meant then. But it was fourteen hours from the comfort and safety of David's home, and they had another member in the group, one who was hardly willing. Sam urged him, "Dean, I can go. I can bring the body back, you can't do a drive like that now-"

"Did I ask for your input?! Just get the damned car ready!" he barked.

"But Dean, you shouldn't-"

"Do it!"

Dean's tone had an edge that brooked no further argument. Sam swore, but he left to extricate the car from it's shroud.

Dean turned back to the remaining two. "David told you the truth, Dennis; as screwy as it sounds. What you saw on that tape was the death of one dangerous sonofabitch. And yeah, he was a vampire. The world's not as cut and dried as you think, pal. There's a whole other side, full of all the nasty things that you read about in your fairy tale books, plus a few more. And my brother and I do our best to eliminate as many of them as we can. That's where David fits in. A couple of years ago, I showed up at his hospital, on death's door thanks to this work. He put me back together, and long story short, he's been doing it ever since. He's got his reasons for helping us, but it's not my place to say them. All you have to know is that he's doing the rest of you a favour."

Dennis found his voice. "You expect me to believe-"

"Nope. I don't. That's why we're going on this little trip. The four of us are going to a place that will show you exactly what this is all about. Your tape shows a burning body. Well that's one way to kill these bastards; get them into sunlight and they go up like a freaking flare. Nobody set fire to any living man that day. If you watched the tape again you'd see that I just opened the door and let the light flood in, and he roasted because of it. Yeah, I know how that sounded. The last thing I feel like doing is sitting in a damned car for fourteen hours, but I owe David my life a few times over, and I'll be damned if I sit back and watch his life and career circle down the bowl because of it!"

He paused, barely concealing the grimace as he felt his stamina begin to fail him. The gun was growing heavy, and he needed to sit down. David watched him with concern as Dean continued in a tired voice. "I'm not going to hurt you. That is, unless you force me to. We're going for a long, quiet ride, and at the end of it you'll see that what we're saying is all true. But I swear to God, if you do anything to keep me from proving it to you I'll give you a brand new hole to crap yourself through. Give me your phone, and whatever else you have!"

Dennis shakily handed over all his communication tools.

"Now sit your ass back down and stay quiet for a minute. David, take that damned tape and run it through your garbage disposal." David got up and did so. Dean kept the gun pointed at Dennis, and took the chair vacated by his friend, pressing a hand to his aching side. He sighed angrily, "You stupid sonofabitch! Why'd you have to play detective now? Weren't you busy enough kicking half dead-patients into the street? You have no idea what you stepped into."

Dennis Churchill had to admit, he had serious regrets at the moment. He eyed Dean nervously, noting that he was on somewhat shaky footing. For a moment it crossed his mind that if he lunged and successfully grabbed the gun, there was probably little Dean could do about it.

Dean read his mind as if he'd said it out loud. "Don't even think about it. You're not the hero type, and you do not want to die here in this livingroom any more than David wants to scrub your brains off his wall."

Dennis abandoned the idea. He sat in silence as David returned, a dufflebag filled with road food and supplies. "I put enough kibble out for a dozen dogs. I can go whenever you're ready." He turned his back to Dennis and whispered to Dean, "Are you really up to doing this drive? Sam and I can do it, we can bring him here, while you take it easy and babysit him."

Dean shook his head. "No. This is my genius plan. I started it, I have to see it through myself. Besides, you ought to know by now that I don't idle very well."

* * *

Fourteen long, uncomfortable hours in the cramped quarters of the car. Add to that a frightened hostage. The drive was an unpleasant experience for everyone. David had grabbed several throw pillows from the couch, and he'd given one to Dean, and one to Dennis. It offered a little relief when they needed to sleep. David could see from Dean's taut expression that he was in considerable discomfort. Sam did the driving, with David taking over when he needed a break. They bought road food, and endless coffee. Bathroom breaks were restricted to roadside rest areas, where Dennis could be contained, and no one was near for him to raise an alarm. He objected vociferously to the treatment, but they ignored him, and he eventually fell into sullen silence. It was a relief when they finally reached the place.

The scene was familiar. It was dark. They had to take the flashlights from the trunk. The night this time was colder, and the day's warmth had given way to a chilling dampness. Each blade of grass was silvered with droplets, and they were shed by the silent group's muffled steps as they made their way through the field, and up to the copse of trees. Dean kept a sharp eye on Dr. Dennis. He was a flight risk at any moment, but here, in the dark, in the open, he could bolt. He needn't have spent the effort though. Dennis Churchill was urban to his core, and this dark and rural scene was so alien that he hardly dared to lift his eyes from the figure making a path in front of him. It took little time to reach the site.

* * *

The four stood, breathing steam in the still night air. They were once again in the midst of the lilacs, once again at the camouflaged gravesite of Iris and Paul. Dean and Sam could see it immediately, but to Dennis, it was undisturbed ground. He stood shivering and fearful, wondering what was next.

Dean turned to David. "David...you don't have to be here. I know this brings back stuff you'd rather not think about. Sam and me; we can handle it from here."

David was shivering from the effects of the damp cold, and unpleasant memories. He shook his head though. "You need a shovel hand, Dean. I'm still your doctor, and I'll be damned if I see you spend your precious strength sweating in a hole. If I believed my word actually carried any weight with you, I'd order you back to the car."

Dean frowned. "That's not fair. You know I respect what you say, most times."

David grunted and picked up the shovel. "Uh huh. When it suits you. Now why don't you sit for a little while? Sam and I can get the lion's share of digging done. And Dennis looks like he's pretty freaked out right now, maybe this is the time for you to fill in some of the blanks."

Dean glanced over at the other man. Dennis Churchill sat hunched and shivering, tethered to the twisted trunk of one of the ancient lilacs. The purple flowers were done now; brown and past their prime and going to seed on their stems. The overwhelming floral scent had faded to a faint, decaying spice. He knew that the point of this was to educate the man, but he still had an angry urge to keep him off-balance and afraid. He still didn't appreciate the way he was turfed from his bed when he was vulnerable, but he also knew that Dennis was the same man who's surgery skills had saved his life after Johan's knife work. He owed him, at least a little.

He watched with bone-aching weariness as his brother and friend began to raise a pile of earth. He would have done it himself if he could have. Instead he sat on the dewy grass beside his hostage.

Dennis glanced up at him with alarm.

"Relax, Doc." Dean said. He made a show of setting the safety back on his revolver and he slipped it into his coat. "I guess it's about time I fill you in a bit here. You're going to see some pretty horrifying things in a little while."

Dennis said nothing. He pulled his coat a little tighter around himself.

Dean turned toward the two figures sweating at their excavation. "You're pretty sure we're all a bunch of whack-jobs, aren't you..?"

Dennis snorted, despite his fear. "I don't know what else to think at this point."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I get that. You think we've all watched one too many Twilight flicks or something. But nothing I say right now will change your mind. They're digging up a burial there; I guess you might have figured that. You ready to hear about it?"

Dennis turned to his captor. "Why not? It's not like I have any choice."

Dean smiled a little. Dennis had a spark, and he appreciated that, despite everything. "Ok...I'm going to give you some back story, but you have to keep your mind wide open. Do you think you can do that?"

Dennis knew he probably wasn't in danger now. But he was in the middle of nowhere in a dark field under very questionable circumstances. At the very least he had to rely on them to get back, and he figured he may as well learn what he could, for use later. He nodded.

Dean related the whole tale then. He described everything, with the exception of Conrad and his group, because it was murky water that he didn't want to wade through at that time. Dennis listened in silence. When Dean was done, he leveled a defiant glare at Dennis. "So...nothing to say now?"

Dennis had sat through the story. But he couldn't keep his disbelief quelled. "I humoured you and listened to your fairy-tale, Dean. And yes, I saw your burns, and the stitches at your throat. But put yourself in my place, for god's sake! This is nonsense! It's fantasy! And maybe you were involved in some sort of cult activity, or fetish club, I don't know! But vampires?! Come on!"

Dean sighed in frustration. He shouldn't have expected any acceptance of his tale. He knew how it sounded. It would come down to physical evidence, as he knew it would. It sickened him to his core to have to do this. Paul deserved better than the rude treatment that Dean was now forced to offer his remains. But the living took precedence over the dead, and David needed him to right this.

"That's fine. You don't have to believe me right now. But you damned well better watch real close when we tell you to. I don't want to be here any more than you do, trust me. I'm forced to do this thing, so that you'll understand that David told you the truth. I hate this more than I can say, and the fact that I have to do it for a piece of shit like you makes me want to hurl!" He turned away and called out to the diggers, growling, "Are you close yet?"

Sam stopped, and wiped his sweaty brow, catching his breath. "Getting there. Maybe another foot and a half."

"Good. Sooner we do this the better." Dean got to his feet slowly, and he turned to Dennis. "Get ready. This is not going to be something you'll forget anytime soon." He stepped toward the hole they were digging, peering down into the dark. He couldn't see much, so he flicked on his flashlight. At the bottom of the hole, a tuft of copper coloured hair protruded from the clods of black earth. He crouched and pointed to it. "Better stop with the shovels. He's right there."

Sam bent down, and saw what Dean did. "Yeah, that's his head. Is that what you want?"

Dean nodded grimly. "It's enough." He had to turn away then. There was a stink beginning to waft from the hole. They had been buried for over a week and the start of decomposition was to be expected. He wasn't squeamish, he'd seen hundreds of bodies in every state of decay, but somehow he didn't want to see the effects on these two. He was glad the girl was wrapped, at least he wouldn't have to look at her now. Iris would stay undisturbed in her final resting place, nothing more was required of her. But Paul, unfortunately, would be denied that respite. He had one more indignity to suffer, and the guilt over that cut Dean to his centre. He turned back to Sam. "Come on up. I'll do the rest."

Sam shook his head. "Let me finish. I'm fine here, and you shouldn't be near this-"

"Just get out!" Dean barked angrily. "This is my deal, my idea. Just let me do what I have to!" He didn't wait, he swung his feet over the edge, dropped down into the hole and began to brush the soil away from the remains. Sam sighed and hauled himself out of the grave, leaving Dean to collect what he'd come for. When Dean had the head freed from the earth, Sam handed him a bag to cover it. Dean gently placed it in the plastic and let his brother take it from his cold hands. He then braced himself against the grassy edge and tried to pull himself up, but he couldn't. David stepped forward and gripped his wrists to help him out.

"Dean, you don't have to do this.." David said softly, as he steadied him on his feet. "I'll bounce back, no matter what Dennis or anyone does. I know how you feel about all of this.."

Dean waved him off irritably. "We're in this far, we can't back out now. I pulled a gun on your colleague, remember? I pretty much kidnapped him. And now he's witnessed this lovely little scenario. We're all screwed if we don't see this through to the finish. And I told you, David; I won't let you lose what you have because of me. I couldn't live with that."

David had no retort, he knew Dean was right. They stood in silence for a moment, watching the steam of their breath rise and coil away in the cold night air. It began to spit rain, just enough to chill them, but not enough to soak. Finally the doc asked, "Now what, Dean? You should get some place warmer, this isn't good for you in your state."

"I guess we fill that hole back in and cover it over. After that we just wait 'til dawn. Dennis will see what happens when the sun comes up and hits the... If that doesn't convince him then I'd be tempted to put a bullet in his head and stuff him in that hole along with the others."

David was appalled. "You don't mean that!"

Dean shot him a withering look. "I said I'd be tempted, David. I didn't say I would do it."

"Right..of course." David regretted even thinking that his friend could be that cold. He picked up his shovel and began to move the soil back into the grave. He threw himself into the task; the sooner they were finished here, the sooner Dean could be back in a healthier place.

* * *

Dean trudged back to where Sam stood beside their captive. The bag was tied and sat on the ground beside them. He dropped beside it.

"I'll go help David." Sam said.

Dean nodded. He watched him go, and turned his attention to the thing between he and Dennis. "Well, I told you you'd be seeing some ugly things. Might as well get it over with." He turned on his light and untied the bag. Paul's dirt-encrusted head rolled out onto the wet grass. "Yeah, it's a head. It's gross. But this is why I brought you here. Don't turn away, I know you've seen enough death in your line of work."

Dennis shuddered, and stared at Dean in horror. "You're a god-damned psychopath!"

"Nope. I'm not. I'm a hunter. I kill evil things that need to be dead for the sake of the rest of you clueless sonsofbitches. This particular one wasn't as bad as most. He actually had a conscience, which was pretty much a curse for him, poor bastard. But he was a vampire, just as that black-covered freak at the hospital was. Look at him, Dennis. I'm going to show you something." He set his jaw, and turned the head over and brushed the dirt away from the white, faintly freckled face. Paul's eyes were half open, the colour of them hidden now by a white opacity. His red bristled jaw was slack. For a moment, Dean faltered. Seeing Paul's eyes now, blind and milky in death, was almost too hard to bear. He was sure he could see the reproach in them. But he steeled himself and turned to make sure Dennis was bearing witness. "Watch now."

Dennis shook his head. "No...god, you're-"

"Do it, or it'll be another body in that hole!"

Dennis glared at him, and turned his gaze to the head. Dean held the light between his teeth, illuminating his hands as he pried open the mouth. He pulled up the upper lip and revealed Paul's fearsome canines. "You see that, Doc? Does that look human to you?"

Dennis was truly astonished. He blinked in shock, and leaned closer. "They're really... they're actually like-"

"They're like a vampire's. Just as David said."

Dennis forgot his horror for a moment. He reached a tentative hand forward, and touched a fingertip to one of the points, then drew away in revulsion.

"Seen enough?" Dean growled.

Dennis stared at the head, then at Dean. "I...I guess they do look pretty convincing. But people do these kinds of things, I've heard of people getting under-skin implants, horns even. People file their teeth, get cosmetic caps.. It doesn't mean they really are what they're mimicking!"

Dean had expected the skepticism. He carefully rewrapped the head. "I figured you might say that. That's why we stay here 'til daylight. You'll see what happens then." He got to his feet, holding the plastic-wrapped bundle in the crook of his arm. and shivering in the rain, he returned to the grave side.

David was standing back now as Sam re-worked the ground cover to look natural again. Dean shook the drops from his hair, coughing. "I'm going back to the car. I've got the thing, I'll put it in the trunk. I'm done in, I've got to sit down."

"We're nearly finished here," Sam said. "We'll be over in a few minutes."

* * *

Dean trudged along the faint path through the wet field. The sight of the Impala was a welcome relief. He put the sack and its abhorrent contents into the trunk, and climbed into the car, settling behind the wheel. He fired her up and cranked the heat, and in a moment felt the powerful and comforting rush of warmth. He was shivering uncontrollably, and he pulled off his wet jacket. He let the heat wash over him, and he closed his eyes and leaned back. _So tired._.. He shifted and felt a sharp lance of pain from his wound, and he cursed out loud. It was a heartfelt epithet that summed up the whole damned experience. He couldn't shake the image of those dead white eyes, accusing, judging him for this last affront, and for a moment he felt a wave of bitter emotion that tightened his throat and brought tears to his eyes. "sorry Paul." he whispered.

* * *

Sam finished, and stood back, surveying his efforts. Satisfied, he gathered their things and he and David left the place, with Dennis, hands still tied, a few paces in front of them. As they walked, David said miserably, "I hate that you guys have to do this."

"Don't. Don't feel any guilt over it, David. We owe you a hell of a lot more than this."

David was quiet for a moment. "Do you think your brother will be ok? He's seems really hit hard by this whole thing."

Sam took a moment to answer. "I don't know...probably. He's got so much complicated emotion going on in that stubborn head of his. Dean can usually just forge ahead through all kinds of crap if he feels justified, but every now and then something happens that pulls the rug out and shakes his whole foundation. If he thinks he's wronged somebody, or made some mistake that cost somebody else, he takes it to heart so hard. He forgets all the people out there that he saved, all he can think about is the one he couldn't."

"Mmm."

They were at the car now, the discussion was put on hold. Sam stowed the tools, careful to not disturb the plastic sack. Dennis waited by the door to be let in to the car. Once the four were seated comfortably, Dean reiterated what would happen next. "We wait. When the sun comes up, you can watch what we came here to show you. After that, Dennis, you can do whatever the hell you want. It'll be a couple of hours, I don't know about you but I could sleep."

* * *

Whether they slept, or simply sat in wakeful silence, the time passed quickly. When the first rosy streaks began to paint the sky, Dean drove to a more isolated sideroad, and he retrieved the sack from the trunk, laying it on the gravel beside the road as the others stood around him. He untied it and slid Paul's head out into the cool early morning air.

"Are you watching?" Dean demanded of the captive surgeon. "Because this is it."

Dennis crouched and turned to see as he was told. The head was facing up, and it was a terrible sight. In the gathering light, Paul's dead complexion was blue-white, and his mouth in a tight rictus. The copper mane, and pale eyelashes were caked with dirt. Dean's mouth tightened into a grim line.

The first wisps of smoke began to curl lightly away. Dennis's eyes widened, and Dean watched his reaction with bitter satisfaction. The sun rose steadily, and the head began to sizzle slightly. When the orange globe fully cleared the horizon, Paul's head, wreathed in stinking smoke, burst into flame. The heat was intense, and Dennis stepped back in shock. The process was brief, and in minutes, there was nothing but a pile of slightly glowing ash left on the stones. Nothing of Paul's remains were left, and as the breeze of the day rose, the ashes began to drift away along the stones.

Dean stared hard at Dennis, who stood open mouthed and shaking his head. "Do you believe us now?" he demanded.

Dennis was speechless for a moment. "I...I can't believe it! It really happened...like you described."

"That's right, Doc. Not natural.._.not_ human." He turned away for a moment, squinting at the morning sunlight, trying desperately to soak some of it up. But it was still cold. "So how about it? Do you agree now that what happened in that loading bay was just like David said, and that it should never be revealed to anybody?"

Dennis was still stunned by what he'd seen. His whole lexicon of understanding was deeply shaken. "Yes.." he said quietly. "I believe you."

"And what about David now? Are you going to throw him to the wolves and ruin his career and life?"

Dennis was in profound shock, but he turned to his colleague. "No... David, as far as I'm concerned, the contents of the tape never happened. I don't know what the hell to say or do right now, but I know what I _won't_ be saying.."

Dean needed to hear the words. He had to know this was all done successfully, and for good reason. "So you won't fire him, will you?"

"No, of course not."

Dean sighed then. "Good. Because he's the best guy you'll ever have on your staff. I'm sorry about scaring you with the gun, Doc; but it was necessary. You can go now, this is finished. If you want, we can find you an airport or bus station or something...or you can come back with us." Dean turned his back and climbed back into the car, not caring to wait on his answer.

Dennis spoke to David. "I...have some questions. Alot of them. I think I'd like to drive back with you. You've profoundly altered my perception of the world, I can't leave it hanging or I'll lose my bloody mind!"

"I understand." David said quietly. "Trust me, I know exactly how you feel right now."

Sam had gone to the driver's side, where Dean sat. "You ok..?" he asked softly.

Dean ignored the question. Instead he shifted over to the passenger side. "You'd better drive first. I'm wiped. I'm just going to shut my eyes for a while. Nobody talk to me."

The long drive back began. Quiet conversation went on for hours in the back seat, while in the front, a grim and unhappy silence reigned.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

"Dean..? Hey, we're here." Sam shook him awake gently.

Dean stared at him in bleary-eyed confusion. "Here?"

"Yeah, we're back at David's."

He rubbed a hand over his gritty eyes and sat up from the crumpled position in which he'd been snoozing. His voice was raspy with sleep. "Where's Dennis?"

"We dropped him off. It's fine, Dean; David had a long talk with him, he won't say anything." Sam took him by the elbow and helped him out of the car. Dean stood, leaning against the warm metal and blinking in the darkness.

"What time is it?" he asked, still disoriented from the seemingly endless trip.

"Around eleven. Come on, David's already inside." Sam locked the door and swung its squealing weight shut. He was exhausted from the drive, and he knew his brother must be equally so. He walked up to the front door and turned, seeing he was alone. "Dean, are you coming?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah." He followed his brother into the welcoming light of the foyer.

* * *

David had put a kettle on for tea. They'd had such an unhealthy volume of coffee during the drive, but he wanted something comforting and warm to greet them. The dog was dancing at his feet, reveling in the affectionate touch of David's hand. He glanced up. "Stretch out on the sofas, guys, I have to take him out."

The brothers did so. David took Mayhem out back, and he was gone for several minutes. When he returned, the kettle was singing. He dug through his disorganized pantry, finding his teapot and the tea. When he had it steeping, he joined them in the living room. Sam was sprawled in one of the easy chairs, dwarfing it's padded velvet bulk. Dean was flat out on a couch, an arm thrown over his eyes against the light. The doc sat down in another chair and sighed deeply. "One more dragon slain." he mused.

"Amen." Sam grunted in acknowledgement, not moving. They were all so stiff and tired and drained from the endless hours on the road that none of them had the energy to speak.

Only the dog had any life. David ran him through his paces, rewarding him with the requisite treats. When the timer sounded, he went into the kitchen., emerging minutes later with steaming mugs. Sam took his with relish. Dean made a face and refused it. "Tea? Are you kidding me?!" he griped.

David had forgotten his audience. "Right. What the hell was I thinking.." He put down the mug and went to back to the kitchen, returning with whiskey. He poured several fingers worth for Dean and handed it to him. Sam stuck with his tea. The bottle David brought was full, and it was expensive. He had picked it up specifically, anticipating Dean's eventual visit. He knew his friend liked his hard liquor and that Dean rarely indulged in the good stuff.

Dean saluted his choice and made short work of it. David set the bottle down beside him.

David slumped back down and drank his tea. "I wish I could say something a little more significant than just 'Thanks'.. But thanks. You really saved my ass."

Dean hauled himself up painfully. "Ditto. Several times over. I know I kind of dropped that on you guys, but I didn't see any other way. Dennis is now in on our happy little reality. I don't expect he'll be any use to us, but at least he isn't a threat."

David had hardly had time to contemplate just how threatened his comfortable world had been by this. The gravity of it hit him as he sat there. "Christ. I nearly went down the crapper this time, didn't I?"

"Uh huh." Sam agreed. "Sorry."

David sighed. "Don't be. I know what I'm into. I started this for Catherine's memory, but I do it for you guys now. But don't get me wrong, I'm pretty darnned glad I don't have to start packing tomorrow."

Dean snorted. "David...aw christ, I've got nothing. Shut up and refill me."

David did so. "Nice stuff, isn't it? Glenmorangie. It wasn't made in a wash tub in Tennessee."

Dean took a fresh draught. "I can tell. Doesn't feel like it's going to find a way through me as the crow flies."

David joined him in a glass. "Sam? You want a nip?"

"No, thanks. I'm too damned tired."

"Suit yourself." David sipped the scotch, savouring it's velvet bite. They all relaxed in silence, waiting for the cue to go to bed.

Dean finished his and poured another. He was feeling the warm fingers spreading along his veins, releasing his tension, soothing his soul. He remembered Dennis. "So we dropped your boss off, I hear. How was he?"

David shrugged. "I had fourteen hours to go over all of it with him. I think he left with the understanding that he had no real understanding. He wasn't comfortable, in the end. I think he gets that we were for real, but I'm pretty sure he didn't want to know."

Dean snorted. "Who would? Nobody likes their belief system challenged, let alone shattered. Reality sucks."

"Maybe. But knowledge is liberating too, Dean. I nearly went nuts after the werewolf took Catherine. Meeting you and learning the truth kept me from medicating myself into a straight-jacket."

"Well, you're a sick bastard then, David. Welcome to the club." Dean downed the last from his glass and got up stiffly, wincing and holding his free hand to his aching side. "I'm done. Wake me up when the world plays nice." He made his way to the guest room he'd occupied, and without bothering to change, he sprawled across the bed.

"Should I reheat this?" David asked, holding Dean's cold tea.

Sam shook his head wrily. "Nah. I think he got what he needed. Go to bed, David. We're fine. I'll check on him and maybe crash here on the couch again tonight."

"Sure...ok." David put the mug in the kitchen, returning to speak one last time. "Sam...again, thanks, for coming to my defence like this. I really appreciate it."

Sam knew he did. "I'd love to claim the credit, but like I said, it was Dean's quick thinking. But I'd have done anything too, to keep you from being harmed by your connection to us. Don't lose any sleep over this, ok? You've done ten times more for me and Dean."

David nodded silently, too tired to do much more than climb the steps to his room. "If you need anything at all-"

Sam smiled, picked up a balled-up sock from the carpet and threw it at him. "I said we're fine, David! Get lost!"

* * *

When he had gone, Sam crept into his brother's room. The bedside lamp was on, and he could see that Dean had simply dropped onto the bed. He sat down on the mattress edge gently, watching him, and wondering if he was asleep.

"You're creeping me out again." Dean growled into his pillow.

"Sorry. Just checking up on you before I crash. Are you ok? Can I get you anything?"

Dean rolled over reluctantly. "You can pour me another shot, if you're going that way."

Sam sighed. He got up, returning with a fresh glass of whiskey. "Last one...this pretty much drained the bottle." He handed it to Dean, who took it as if he'd just come through the desert.

Sam sat quietly as he swallowed half of it, waiting for an appropriate segue into conversation. "Long trip." he yawned. "Hard couple of days."

Dean put the glass down. "Aw, don't start, Sam." He knew this was coming, Sam had that doe-eyed 'let's talk about it' look.

Usually, Sam would back off at that point. But he was worried. "Just give me a minute, ok? I just need to ask you something.."

Dean swore under his breath. He reached for the glass again but Sam held it out of reach. "Sam, give it-"

"I will, but hear me out first."

"ugh... Fine!"

Sam fiddled with it for a moment. Dean was exhausted. He was well on his way to a morning hangover...now was the time. "Dean, you slept alot, on the drive..."

He was instantly defensive. "So? I was a little banged up! I didn't think I'd have to justify-"

"It's not that, Dean. God, if you slept for the next two weeks straight you'd have earned it. It's just...you dreamed, too. You struggled for hours, mumbling, talking. I woke you up several times, you were so worked up." He sighed, knowing he was on thin ice now. " This whole thing, right from the start of it all, I've never seen you get so torn up about anything hunting-related. At least not for a long time. What's different about this?" He knew, but he needed Dean to open up, for his own sake.

It embarrassed him that his brother, and maybe the others had witnessed it. "Aw christ! It's late, I'm tired and sore. Can't you play therapist some other time?"

"Come on, Dean...just talk about this a little. For your own screwed up psyche!"

His expression grew harsh. "Why?! Nothing changes, Sam! Everything stays the same shit-pile whether I cry on your shoulder or drink myself into a coma! Why do I have to pick at the scab now? Ok, fine; it hit me because of Iris! It was her brother that I decapitated, and he was all she had, ok? He was everything to her, she told me about how he liked gardens and...and dogs and.. And sailing; he was teaching her how to work the boat. I sawed his f~cking head off! And hey; surprise! Afterward, it turns out he didn't deserve to die! I took everything from her, I brought all this down on all of them! Me! The great white hunter!" He sat, his back rigid against the headboard. His eyes were shiny, and he wiped at them angrily.

"She tried to kill you Dean! Jesus, she stood back and let them torture you!"

"Because I robbed her of her family! What would you do, Sam, if you were in her place?"

"Dean...Conrad was a vampire. His days were doomed as it was, Iris was going to lose him one way or another; as it was he was already half-lost. He hated what he was, just like Paul did. Paul begged for death, he demanded it! They were happier to die, rather than live and struggle and suffer trying to be something else than what they were cursed with. It was a noble idea, but you've got to know it was going to end in tragedy. And not just theirs; there would be all those people who died at their hands, and their grieving families! It was a bad situation, and maybe we have a load of guilt over how it went down, but we had gone through hell ourselves, remember? You suffered more than any of us, with mom, and dad, and everything that was laid on your shoulders since you were a kid. You were a mess, Dean, the night Conrad died. And you were just doing what Dad taught us to do-"

"Yeah! Yeah, I was! That's the whole goddamned thing right there, isn't it?!"

He was distraught now. Pain and exhaustion and alcohol pried the lid up on the box, and tears ran freely. "I did what that tunnel-visioned sonofabitch taught me! Well, he was wrong, Sam! He said there was only good and bad, and nothing in between. And vampires were on the other side of the line! He never let us see any grey; it was all his black and white! I swallowed that crap whole, everything he told me; I soaked it up and marched in line! I was addicted to the idea that somehow, despite the crappy way I grew up, despite the pariah I was in school, despite the blood and fear and pain I saw every day; that I was better than everybody! I was a hero, Sam! Dad was a saint! I believed it all! I was a f~cking _Winchester_, with a shining thirty-eight and a God-given right to hunt down and murder everything that didn't fit the narrow little slot! How many more were there that died, how many did I send to hell that didn't deserve it? Tell me that Sam!"

He snatched the glass from Sam's hand, drained it and threw it so hard that it shattered against the window frame. He swore then, his voice breaking, and he drew his knees up and buried his face in his arms.

Sam sat in silent shock, stunned and horrified at the reaction he'd brought about. The depth of his brother's anguish was more than he'd expected, deeper than he could have ever imagined. He hated that he'd forced him to go down this road now, while he was so weak and tired. The remorse cut so sharply that it left him speechless. He should have said comforting things, he should have turned it around, but all he could do was stare at Dean, as his older brother's shoulders shook while he wept. The reality of Dean's words still echoed in his head. It was true, so much of it was true.

He shook off his stupor and realized Dean needed him. He shifted closer and gently pulled Dean's hands away from his face. He did a risky thing then; he hugged him. He held him in a tight embrace, whispering that it would be alright, for a long time, until he felt the tension leave him and his crying finally quiet. When Dean finally pushed him away, he let him. Dean lay down in weary silence and turned his back to the world. Sam knew that it was time to go. He carefully covered him with a blanket, and when he heard his breathing change to the even sounds of sleep, he slipped back out. He took his place on the couch, pulling his own covers up to his neck, and stared at the ceiling until light.

* * *

When David came down, it was still early. He'd found he was wired from the drive, and the events, and he couldn't stay in bed any longer. He donned his robe, and with dog in tow, he went down to watch television quietly. He was surprised to find Sam wide-eyed, already parked in front of the tube. "Thought I wouldn't see you conscious until at least noon." he yawned. "How's Dean, is he sleeping?"

Sam nodded. "Solidly. I checked an hour ago. I don't think we'll be hearing from him for a while."

"Good." David sat down, and Mayhem leapt onto his lap. He roughed him up until the dog was beside himself with joy. "Did he sleep right away? I sure as hell wanted to, but my mind wouldn't shut down."

"Not right away." Sam didn't elaborate. He still had Dean's reaction fresh on his mind. They watched the tv in tired silence for a while, before Sam spoke. He got up, checked on Dean, and gently closed the bedroom door before he started. "Dean got pretty loaded, after you left. I kind of helped."

David put the dog down and shooed him away. "Mmm. I can see why"

Sam glanced at the door again, lowering his voice. "You don't know the half of it. Neither did I, it turns out." He told David what had happened, in painful detail. When he was finished, he waited, the unhappiness raw in his face. "Do you think I did the right thing, getting him to spill ? I knew this whole thing was eating at him, and I thought I knew why. But it went so much deeper than I figured. I thought the gist was about his being responsible for Iris losing her brother...I know why that would hit him hard, with the relationship we have. But the stuff about Dad, and his feeling that, no matter how bad our lives got, he at least thought he was doing a good thing, the right thing, for the world. It all got blown up for him, the day he killed Conrad and then learned of Lenore's band, and their well intentioned vow. No more good and evil with no equivocation, no more black and white. I never knew how much that revelation preyed on his mind, he never really said much about it afterward. He always thought that somehow hunting gave him value, like nothing else did in our crappy upbringing. So when this all came to a head, with Iris looking for her own revenge, and Paul being another of the "good" ones, it drove it all home again. It took away his whole sense of purpose. I know he was tired, and drunk, but he was such a wreck... I shouldn't have pulled all that out of him. I should have let him be."

David felt for Sam. He felt deeply for the both of them. "Wow. I had no idea. But I think you were right, Sam. He keeps all that shit bottled up so tightly. Your instincts to get him to shed some of it are sound, I think. Nobody can keep going like that."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But he was so, I don't know; depleted, afterward. Like saying it out loud gave it legs."

David thought about that. "No, I still think it was a good thing. Those feelings were there regardless. At least now that he has it out in the open, and he sees that he's not rejected or judged by the people that matter, and he can put it aside. And I know how it is with him, you have to pick your moments."

It was what he needed to hear. Sam sighed, keenly feeling that he hadn't slept. "Thanks, David. I guess I needed your professional opinion."

David snorted. "My professional opinion is that we should all be committed. But you're a good brother, Sam. The best. Dean will be fine." He stood then. "I'll go in and do my doc thing. Sam, why don't you go upstairs and grab a bed? I have this shift."

It was an offer he couldn't refuse. Reassured, Sam climbed the stairs and crawled into his bed. He couldn't fend off sleep now if he tried.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

The catharsis had the opposite effect. Sam had hoped that by shedding some of his burden of guilt and emotion, Dean would rally and gain back some of his old self. Although serious, his spate of injuries was not the worst he'd ever experienced in his less-than-charmed existence, but this time he seemed to stay down for an unusually long time. He had hardly spoken to either of them since they'd returned. He slept for long periods, and when awake, he stared at nothing for longer still. Over the next several days, both David and Sam had tried to engage Dean in conversation, but it was futile. He was uninterested in participating in life, at least at the moment. Neither could blame him; he'd undoubtedly had his fill of experiences for a while, and maybe he just needed to decompress in his own way. But after hour upon frustrating hour, day upon day, his condition became a concern. His answers to their questions were short and filled with hollow disinterest. His eyes were uncharacteristically dull, his voice flat and quiet. David became increasingly aware that the healing of Dean's sutured wound had slowed and the red-rimmed puncture had begun to weep fluid. He had to change the dressing frequently, and he put him back on IV, and upped the antibiotics. More worrisome, Dean had begun to cough weakly. And when he registered a low-grade but persistent fever, the doctor's pacing overtook Sam's.

He berated himself bitterly when it refused to come down. "I knew it, damn it! It was too much, I shouldn't have let him do this! He should have been flat out in hospital bed with a damned intravenous for another week, not standing up to his chin an icy, mould-ridden grave!"

Sam tried to reassure him. "David, he didn't have that option, Dennis made sure of it. And anyway, he didn't ask either of us for an opinion before he pulled a gun on your boss. There was no way you could have stopped him from going."

David drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair in guilt-fueled agitation. "Well then I should have gone back without him, he could have stayed here while we-"

"We tried that. It didn't fly. He was determined, David, and you know what he's like when his mind's made up."

David did know. But it still didn't help. He felt miserable and selfish and irresponsible. He got up and stalked to the kitchen. "I'm making some soup. I'll put it in his bloody IV if he won't eat it!"

* * *

Sam sighed. He got up himself and entered Dean's room for the hundredth time. And as always, his brother lay immobile, eyes closed. Sam sat beside him. He watched the rise and fall of his brother's chest, noting the quickened breath, and the congested sound. This wasn't new territory; Dean had been laid low by pneumonia before, several times in fact. Once it had taken hold, it had a nasty habit of recurring at the lowest points in his troubled existence. David hadn't declared it as such, not yet anyway. But Sam knew. He had to snap him out of this malaise, he knew it was at the heart of it. He gently shook him.

Dean turned over to avoid him, but Sam persisted. "C'mon, Dean, I know you're awake."

"So?!"

"So don't pretend. David's making you some soup. Unless you want it to get into your system by some alternate method, you'd better sit up now."

Dean growled something and coughed, finally rolling and pulling himself up against the headboard. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic. I live for this." Sam sniped. He softened though. "How are you doing? Any pain?"

"Only one. And it's huge."

"Funny." He sighed and reached for the twisted little gold mass that still sat on the night table. Johan's keepsake. He stared at it closely for a few moments, thinking of anything but. He put it back down. "Dean...I know you have a lot of shit on your mind. And yeah, that's nothing new. But...can you just talk to me? Just for a little bit? I'm worried about you. So is David. I mean, this thing, this whole vampire episode; it's over now. It was hard, and it was complicated. But we're safe. And we won, right? In the end, Johan was taken out. It's what we do, and we did it successfully. People are safer now."

Dean's expression was hardly self-congratulatory. "Yay. One less vampire. But it wasn't just one, was it Sam? It wasn't just one sick, evil sonofabitch. It was two more; who were committed to something better, who deserved anything but what they got. And a messed-up girl, who witnessed things that nobody should ever have to. And she died for it too, in the end. So wow...what a hell of a victory. Hand me my f~cking medal!"

The depth of Dean's bitterness surprised Sam. "You know that's not how it went. You know they were all doomed, in the end."

Dean looked away. For several painful minutes, he was silent. Finally he answered. "Yeah? Well who isn't?!"

Sam sat, dejected and at a loss. He had nothing to add now that would convince Dean that the life they led was anything but a misguided lie. "That's not us, Dean." he said quietly. "I know these things have changed how we think about a lot of it, but in the end-"

"Aw, leave me alone...please, Sam."

"No! Damn it, Dean, I won't! This isn't right, it's not normal!" His words caught in his throat and he stopped, resuming his pacing. "You're fading in front of my eyes, and I can't do anything to stop it! Give me something here, anything! You always made everything right for me, no matter what was going on! Don't let me fail you now, just tell me how to fix this!"

Dean made a sound, of anger, frustration and rejection. He didn't want Sam to feel what he had, for so many years; the failure, the fear, the inadequacy. But he was weary of it all; so much so that he had nothing to offer his brother now. "I'm just tired. ...I'm tired, Sam. It's nothing, ok? I just need to be alone, I just need some quiet. Stop reading all kinds of shit into this. I'm not fading, or whatever you're panicking about. I just took a shit-kicking, that's all. It's bound to slow me down a little; just give me the time and space to get over it, I'm not a kid anymore."

Sam stopped and stared at him hard. "You sound like crap. I know what that is, remember? I've done this god-damned watch before!"

Dean lay back. He rubbed his dry eyes and turned to his brother. His voice was weary and thin. "I'm tired. That's all...just like I said, maybe fifty times so far. So I'm getting a cold, or the damned dog hair is getting to me. It's n-o-t-h-i-n-g. Go pester David. And for god's sake, keep him from freaking out the way you are." He dismissed Sam.

Sam rose, defeated. He went out to where David was fussing in the kitchen.

* * *

Two more days passed in similar fashion. Dean dismissed their attentions, and remained uncommunicative. But his health deteriorated at a steady and demoralizing pace. David was at his wit's end, and Sam was an insomniac. Another grey morning broke in a predictable fashion, with both brother and friend wearily hoping for change. But change didn't come.

"How is he?"

David dropped into a chair. "Not great. His fever is still persisting, I just don't know..." He was haggard, and about as distraught as you'd never want to see your physician. "I have him on everything I dare to hit him with, but it won't break. Antibiotics aren't doing anything..." He glanced up, and realized that poor Sam was looking for something a little more buoying than this. David immediately felt awful, but the reality was that he had nothing more positive to offer. "I don't know what it is at this point. His wound is slow in healing, he's lethargic, weak... He's got that damned fever and cough. He sleeps so much that I can't get enough nourishment into him, and if he thins out any more I'll be at the point of considering a damned feeding tube! I don't know..it's like he's giving up."

Those last words struck at Sam's core. "What do we do?"

"I don't know..." It was David's mantra for the past several days.

Sam was tired of hearing it. "Stop saying that, for christ's sake!" he roared. He stood up and grabbed the phone. "Call that sonofabitch Dennis! He's half the reason Dean's in this state! You said he was a specialist, so get him in here!" He threw the phone into David's hands and stalked out into the back yard.

* * *

Outside in the sunshine, Sam stood, angrily kicking moss from between the slate patio stones, fuming with frustration. He immediately regretted his outburst. It wasn't David's fault. He knew he was doing everything he could, he knew he was highly skilled. And he knew that he was hampered by the situation; if they set foot in the hospital, they would be quickly hauled in to the police station. Dennis wouldn't be the reason, but Dean was on the radar now for his false identity, at the very least.

And deep down, he knew that Dean's own damaged spirit was the real root of it. They could do all the scans they wanted, load him up with all the latest meds, but if he didn't want to heal, he wouldn't. He was on the verge of returning inside when he looked up. David joined him.

The morning sun was harsh to their eyes, cloistered indoors as they'd been. David's grey hair was an unruly tangle, his lean face a haze of grizzled stubble. It hit Sam that he suddenly looked ten years older. "Man, I'm sorry...I shouldn't have laid that on you. I know you're doing everything you can."

David nodded, staring at the blurry tiles at his feet. He rubbed his eyes, and his voice broke. "It's not enough, though, is it? It's just not enough."

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. After a moment, David pulled himself together. "I called. They told me Dennis is on a sabbatical. I guess we rattled his cage with what he learned. They said he went to some retreat for a week of meditation, or something. It's some sort of farm; pecans, goats and organic shit. They apparently run it as a spiritual centre."

Sam snorted. "Poor bastard. That kind of eye-opener can throw anybody's world into a spin. I guess he had a pretty rude awakening."

"And a rough landing. But I have his cell number. I'll keep trying him until I get through." David turned to the patio door. "I'll make some breakfast. Maybe he'll take something this time."

* * *

Rest, and quiet, these were usually a great help after they'd been through a job. If one of them had suffered in the process, the down-time would be the key to recovery. Both brothers had an uncanny ability to heal rapidly from trauma that would lay anyone else flat out for months. It was requisite in their chosen profession. And Dean might have been all right, but for the dreams. He slept excessively, but rest eluded him. The same images, the same damned scenes played out in a never-ending loop. And the weaker he got, the more he succumbed to them. Conrad, grinning in the sunshine, on a sailboat...Iris there with him. Paul, standing on the deck with his friends, turning to meet some distant view... Their expressions changed from contentment to terror, and then all hell would break loose. The gentle blue sky would turn; blackening, and roiling with some fearsome and oppressive threat. The sparkling water beneath the hull turned to thick, dark blood...

He would wake then, gasping and in a sweat. He would turn the light on, and stare at the ceiling until his surroundings felt real again. And Sam would come in. Sam would sit at the bedside, disheveled and weary, and ask the same question.

"You ok?"

A nod.

"Nightmares?"

Dean would shake his head, and Sam would accept the lie. He would sit for a while, until his brother's feverish eyes were less wild, until his breathing settled down a little. He'd refresh his water, and when Dean's tired eyes closed and he fell back asleep, he would leave, returning to the sofa that had been his bed for far too long, to stare into the shapeless dark until the light crept in.

* * *

David finally got through to Dennis. And when he'd relayed the situation, his colleague was swayed. Dennis left his sanctuary and rejoined the real world, and his first stop was the guest room of David Bowman.

Unfortunately he had no revelations that could alter Dean's state. The only surety that came from his visit was that David had all the bases covered. He questioned David with a relentless thoroughness, he examined Dean, he listened, he poked and prodded. But all of his questions were met with the same answer; "I tested for that" or "I checked that" or "There's no reason that he would be reacting this way" And he had to agree.

Sam stood by as the professionals discussed it. It made him angry; irrationally so, hearing them debate the situation. This wasn't some lab experiment that wasn't performing as expected, it was his brother, and his life hung in the balance. Finally he lost patience with their dry and clinical discourse. "So what then?! You two geniuses are supposed to be able to fix this crap! What's the f~cking problem here? Why can't you do that?!"

David glanced at Dennis. Sam was hard to rile; it was significant to hear his anger. But to his credit, Dennis rose to answer. His voice was gentle and firm. "Sam, your brother is under exceptional care with David, I have no qualms about that. David has followed every protocol, but Dean is in a place where he has to push his own recovery now. We're not saints or mystics, all we can do is follow the training and knowledge we have. Right now, he's not in any acute danger, alright? I'd have him back into the facility if I thought it would make a difference, whatever the consequences. But I really think it's up to him now. David has eliminated every possible threat, your brother just needs to... I guess he just needs to let himself heal now."

Sam stared at him for a moment. He knew that Dennis's words were true, they echoed every thought he'd had himself. Dean needed to want to rally. He had to choose survival. The weight of that knowledge was crushing, and Sam nodded silently. "I know...I know. Thanks." he said quietly.

Dennis stole a glance at David. He was struck by the raw pain of this young man's situation. He sat beside him, as Sam dropped his head into his hands. "Find a way to get through, Sam." he urged. "Dean will be alright as long as he lets himself be. And I think you are a very large part of that." He turned to David, who nodded. Dennis continued quietly, "I've been through the proverbial wringer in the past few days. I thought I knew everything...but it's becoming uncomfortably clear that it's not so. There are few things that I thought were solid that still hold up at the moment, but my world is changed so much, and frankly I wasn't ready for that. But that's me, and I thought I pretty much had a handle on this world, but I knew next to nothing, it turns out. You two, on the other hand...you know the depths of the darkness around us. You know what lurks under the bed. Most of us are happily ignorant of it. And from what I understand, you do everything you can to fix it. Sam, he just needs to find a way to come to grips with this. The mind is a powerful thing in the healing process. Trust me," he said ruefully, "I know."

Sam's eyes filmed over. "Thanks. " he managed hoarsely. "And sorry...for the education. Nobody should be forced to know these things."

Dennis snorted. "Sam, I went through med. school. I can't tell you how many fellow students passed out or puked at their first indoctrination into the realities of trauma and surgery. This profession is hard enough. But yeah, I've got to admit that this threw me; enough that I just had to retreat for a few days to think about it. But we all have to face challenges to our complacency. This wasn't easy for me, but it was just one more avenue for me to be surprised."

He was making moves to leave. He stopped when he realized Sam's expression was so hauntingly needy; he had to offer more. "David has it in hand, son. I have every confidence in him, I swear it. If things go south, we'll get him in to the hospital and fix it; you have my word, repercussions be damned. But right now, it's under control, at least enough for comfort. Watch him for change, get him to eat and drink, get him to communicate. Help him work past this and he'll be ok."

Sam thanked him and watched him leave. Nothing Dennis had said was revolutionary, but his advice was sound, and he knew what the elder doc was telling him. He had a task; a mission. He left David to handle what he was trained to do. But for Sam, he knew what he needed to pursue. He began a systematic list of all the cases they'd done, highlighting those that he felt Dean would have called a success. And when he was finished, he perused the long list, and began to gather contact info.

And David did his best. Between them, they kept Dean hydrated, fed, and stable. The physical was kept in check, such as it was. He was a far cry from the blood and guts enthusiasm that characterised him, but it was understandable. But his psyche, it seemed, was beyond their efforts. He refused their attempts to buoy him, and he sank deeper into a drifting melancholy. He was sullen, silent, and so uninterested in anything that they had to say, that they were at a loss.

Long evening conversations between David and Sam failed to find resolution. But Sam had a plan underway, and he kept it to himself, for now. He reassured David as much as he could, knowing the Doc had his bases covered. It was up to Sam to cover the rest.

* * *

When the emails began to come in, Sam nearly cried as he read them. One after another; highly personal, deeply emotional; the testaments arrived. They all spoke to the result of the Winchesters' efforts, and particularly to Dean's. They detailed the effect they had on their lives. They reverberated with gratitude. They echoed with concern and care and worry. They did everything they could to reinforce the importance of Dean's short and harsh lifetime of work, in ways that even Sam could not have verbalized. Many offered to say their piece in person; several threatened so. Sam printed each one, and when he had a thick collection of paper, he chose his moment.

Dean was awake, as David had changed his dressing, distressed again to see the lack of progress. He'd had to pretty much force him to take in some broth. It was mid-afternoon. Sam glanced at David, and David's unguarded expression screamed at him. But this time, Sam ignored it. He held up his paper treasure, David saw the thick stack, and understood. Sam had spoken of this. And it seemed he'd gathered what he needed. Dean was pale and weak, coughing painfully, and so distracted that he'd had trouble engaging him enough to swallow the bit of soup. The exhausted doc smiled wanly, hoping it would make a difference. He left then, patting Sam's arm, and meeting his eye briefly. He was out of words, but the sentiment was loud and clear.

Sam sat down at the bed edge. He watched his brother fake oblivion. After several moments, he lost patience, and he shook him roughly. "Hey...Dean, wake up."

Dean sighed and tried to turn away, but Sam's heavy hand on his shoulder prevented it. When he realized that he had no choice, he turned to his brother. "Tired." he tried.

"Yeah, who isn't." Sam shifted on the bed edge, holding the paper bundle like a life ring. "Pay attention and listen to me!"

Dean blinked at his brother's authoritative tone. He sighed and turned his attention to him. "What, Sam? What do you want?"

Sam wanted to shout a hundred things, but he quelled the urge. Instead, he turned his attention to what was in his hands. "I have some printouts here, I thought you should read them."

Dean waved a weak hand at his bedside table. "Leave it there...I'll get to it later."

"Don't you want to know what they are?"

Dean turned his dull eyes to him. "Ok. What is it?"

Sam took a breath. "A lot. You need to read these, Dean. It's all messages from people I talked to...people who we helped over the years, who know you're hurt. They all wanted to say something to you; they were pretty insistent. They all want to let you know the difference you made for them. They have a lot to say."

Dean turned away wearily. "Aw jesus. Can't they just send a card? I don't want to-"

"Don't want to what? Hear the impact you made on them? Hear how you and you alone changed everything for them?! Dean, I have dozens of letters here, every one of them saying how they are grateful beyond words for what you did for them. I called them all, Dean; every one I could think of, and not one of them, not a single one refused. Read them, please! There are dozens of people who were directly affected, and hundreds more, who were benefited by what you and I do. Dean, we _are_ doing the right thing, you just have to read the impact! I know there's been some things that cast doubt, and you won't believe it when I say it, but here it is in black and white! You made a real difference, Dean! Every one of them, they all say it! If we hadn't been there, their worlds would have crumbled, the spirits would have lingered on in agony, the demons, the vampires, the werewolves would have continued on to ruin a hundred more lives! You have to hear their words...please!"

He was too tired to argue. "Ok. Ok, Sam. Leave them on the table. I'm tired...I'll read it later, I promise. I swear."

Sam stared at him for a moment. "I'll read them to you if you want-"

Dean turned away. " Sure. Later...read them later."

His dismissal was so total that it left Sam with nothing. He had his arsenal, his last thrust, printed in his hand. And Dean refused it now. He didn't know what to do. "How about I read them to you? I really think you should know this.."

Dean descended into a paroxysm of coughing. It was so convincing that Sam fled to find David.

* * *

David attended to him in a flurry of concern. When he ascertained that it wasn't a crisis, he sat back and sighed with a tell-tale weariness. "You aren't dying...at least not today." he said.

Dean said nothing.

"Look, Dean; I know it's the last thing you want to do, but maybe you should hear Sam out."

"Why?" he said with quiet disinterest, "I was there, I already know all that shit."

David looked at him with a mixture of sadness and pained frustration. "Sure you do, you were there for every one of those accounts. But maybe you should hear them again. It took your brother a hell of an effort to pull these testimonials together. He did that for you. And what he got is pretty compelling. Dean, there is a huge bastion of fans out there, people who's lives were repaired, or saved, thanks to you. They all are clamoring to tell you that what you did for them made a difference...a huge one. Every one of them will swear that if it hadn't been for you, they'd be in dire straits now, or worse. And they all want to make sure you know it. And more than that...your brother is worried, Dean. He's a freaking insomniac, did you know that? He spends every night listening to you, making sure you're all right. He's a bloody wreck."

Dean took some time to respond. David watched him as he waited. His patient's reddish beard was uncharacteristically long; he'd seen Dean in various states of scruff, but this was the most whisker he'd ever witnessed. It was sparse still, due to his youth, and his light colouring, nothing like his father's dark, dense beard. But the fact that he'd allowed it to get to this length was telling. He was usually fairly fastidious, but he'd paid little attention to himself in the past days. He was thin, and colourless, too much so for David's comfort.

But as David knew, the idea that Sam was suffering as a result of his state was more than Dean could take. "Fine." Dean agreed sullenly. "Tell him to get his notes together and wow me. Tell him I'm just lying here waiting to be sparked."

David was tired and stretched thin. "Oh lose the attitude already! Jesus, Dean! You're surrounded by people who think the world of you! Maybe you should pull your head out of your precious ass and take note for a change! This isn't only about you!"

David's words shocked Dean into silence, he had no snarky rejoinder. He finally shrugged. "Ok. Ok...tell him to come on back. I'll listen."

* * *

Sam came back. He shuffled in uncertainly, and with an air of dread mixed with hope. He had his crinkled papers in his hands.

Dean turned him him, dull-eyed. "So you had some things to read to me. I'm not going anywhere...why don't you tell me what you have there?"

Sam knew David had coerced Dean. But he didn't care about the circumstance, he just cared that Dean was willing to hear. He sat down again. "I know you don't really want to hear this now, I'm not stupid."

"Just shut-up and read."

Sam gathered himself. "Ok. But really hear me out, Dean. I know you went through all of these, but I'm not so sure you really know what they meant. Dean; there are so many, and they all say the same thing. Thanks, mostly. Thanks for changing their lives, thanks for giving them back their worlds. Every one of these people knows what sacrifices you made, and what that cost did for them. They know they can't go public with their stories, but they are aching to make sure you know what impact you had on them. Hunting made the difference, Dean. It wasn't just a misguided, delusional past-time. It made a real change for good people, and they all want to shout it out."

Dean couldn't ignore Sam's words. Sam was eloquent, when he wanted to be. He had a way about him. He didn't know what to say, so he simply nodded.

Sam saw it and was buoyed. He continued. "So can I read some of these testaments? You come off as quite the freaking saint, or hero. Can you handle that?"

Dean rolled his eyes at the sarcasm. "Just read." he said wearily.

* * *

Sam read. He went through his entire stack, pausing from time to time to make sure his brother was listening. His list was comprehensive, including every person he could make contact with across the states. It didn't matter how much time had passed, they all wanted to have their say. When he was finished, he waited, nervously, expectantly, for Dean's reaction.

Dean had turned his face away. He had covered his eyes. Sam wasn't sure if he'd made an impact or not. "Dean?"

His chest was heaving with emotional strain. Sam touched him lightly. "Dean, all those people, they all say the same thing.."

Dean's voice broke as he answered. "I stole away her brother, Sam. He was everything to her. I killed him, I butchered him like a hog, and she witnessed the aftermath. He tried to do the right thing...they all did. Conrad, Paul...Lenore...maybe they might've done it. But we won't ever know, because I went out and made sure every one of them lived and died in misery."

He hadn't heard a word. And his emotional reaction stunned Sam. "No! No, Dean! Paul wanted death! He craved it, he wanted release! And Conrad died while trying to live up to a moral standard that was a torture to achieve, so as far as I can see, he must have ended up in a better place! And you didn't kill Iris, Johan did! It wasn't your fault!"

Dean turned to him, eyes brimming, his face gaunt and distraught. "Not my fault?! If I never touched their lives, they'd be ok! I was the poison! _I_ was their curse!"

"Dean, no! The curse on them came a long time ago, way before you or I ever set eyes on them. They were vampires! They didn't ask for that, but it was a curse, no way around it. They could have lived with it and become something damned, or they could have suffered through their resistance of their nature. Either way, it had a brutal end, you know that."

Dean was having trouble breathing now. He was beside himself. "I took her only family, Sam! She had enough to deal with, and then I tore her only brother out of her hands! She was twisted with hate, and revenge, and...fear and emptiness! If that had happened to me, jesus...!"

When Sam could finally respond, he put his hands on Dean's shoulders. "You did not know! Dean, we try our best to save people. But nothing is written in stone here! We make mistakes! Doctors make mistakes and patients die! Shrinks make mistakes and screwed up patients go out and harm more people! Nobody knows everything; not me, not you, not Dad!"

Dean stared at his brother. His eyes were wide, his vision blurred with tears. His voice was barely audible. "I grew up believing I had it right, Sam. Dad taught me that I was on the good side of the line; he taught me the line was crisp and clear! But it's not, is it? It's a f~cking blur, and I don't know if I ever saw the right side of it!" His expression radiated the horror he felt at that awareness.

Sam was speechless for a long time. Finally he found his voice. "Dean, Dad wasn't perfect. But what he tried to do was good! Jesus, think about it! Maybe it wasn't as cut and dried as he thought, but we all worked toward the greater good! Yeah, he was screwed up and obsessive and unhealthy, but there's no denying that what he fought for was the best way! The things out there, they've set their sights on the living; and without people like us, the'd be winning! Think of all the tragedies we've routed! Think of the people in these notes of mine, all those people thanking God and us that we were able to intervene! Nothing in this world is flawless! We made mistakes, and we'll make more. So will every other person. But the good we do will out-weigh it, I swear!"

Dean had shut his eyes tight, shaking his head. He could not bring himself to see that truth. His fevered state rejected what was plain. All he could see was Iris's face, and her tortured hatred. He brought his hands to his damp face and hid behind them. He didn't speak again.

Sam tried to bring him back to the present, but it was useless. Dean had shut him out so completely, that he wasn't even sure he heard his voice any more. He waited, hand pressed to his mouth, for Dean to respond, but he was destined for disappointment. Already weak, Dean was exhausted to the point of unconsciousness. His hand dropped away and his strained breathing became more regular, and his expression, screwed tight before, became bland. Sam knew it was useless to continue. He dropped his papers to the floor, and they fluttered away. He left the room, and dropped limply onto the sofa that had been his bed for so long.

* * *

David sat beside him. He waited for a while before asking. "Did he hear you out?"

Sam nodded.

"Did he get it? Did he understand?"

Sam dropped his disheveled head into his hands. He tried to stave it off, but he began to weep, silently, great heaving sobs wracking his tired frame. He shook his head. "It wasn't enough. I don't know what else to say to him. Jesus christ, I just can't undo any of it. Nothing I say can fix it."

David put his arm around his shoulders, holding him tightly and letting him cry it out. His own eyes blurred as he did. _Now what?!_ he thought bitterly. _I'm not a bloody faith-healer! NOW WHAT?!_


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

They both sat in silence, staring at nothing. Sam was stretched out on his sofa, eyes fixed on the ceiling, David was sprawled on his favourite chair, stroking the sleeping dog beside him.

Sam threw an arm over his eyes and sighed. "Tell me what to do David, because I don't have a clue anymore." He wasn't expecting any real answer.

David looked up. "I wish I could tell you, buddy. I wish I had a magic pill, but I don't. But I'll tell you one thing-I don't think I can sit around here watching him fade to a wraith anymore. Dennis is on board, I think it's time we get him back in. I don't know-maybe we missed something, maybe an MRI will tell us something new, because he sure as hell isn't improving." He sighed and yawned, getting up stiffly. "And we've got some excellent mental health professionals. If you or I can't get into his head, maybe one of them can."

It was something. Sam immediately felt lifted with this plan. He was as tired and frustrated as David was that nothing they did or said seemed to make any difference here. Maybe some new approach at the hospital would be the key. He sat up and nodded. "Yeah, for sure-let's do that. Do you think enough time has passed that nobody will pay attention to who he is?"

David nodded. "Probably. And this time it's different, I don't have to hide it from Dennis. That's a huge relief. And frankly, with the beard and the weight-loss, Dean looks quite different from the guy we brought in last time."

David made the arrangements. All that was left was to break it to Dean, and Sam winced at the thought of having to do that. It wasn't going to go over well. When it was time to make the trip, he crept in to Dean's room and stood uncertainly.

"Stop hovering." Dean whispered.

-_Stop dying_- Sam thought. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Are you awake enough to listen to me?"

He coughed drily. "Do I have a choice..?"

"Nope." Sam cleared his throat and braced himself. "Change of plans, Dean. Change of venue. David and I are taking you into Atlanta. Dennis is waiting for us. He's got a private room for you, and we're going to-

That animated Dean. He turned and rose up on an elbow. "Did I hear you right?! What, are you nuts?! Why? Why the hell would I go back there, it's a sure ticket to a holding cell!"

"Because nothing we do here is helping you! For gods sake, Dean-I can't take watching you just fade away in front of me! And neither can David!"

"I'm not fading, I'm not dying! There's nothing wrong here other than the usual, for shits sake! I just need a little time to heal up, what the hell is wrong with you two?! Why do you have to make such a big deal out of this?"

"Dean, you're sick, you're not healing, that's the problem, and-

"Bullshit! I'm fine! I just need some time and some damned breathing space! If the two of you would just leave me alone and stop coming in here with your sob-stories and your stupid "testimonials", I'd be up in no time!"

"Shut up!" Sam roared. He clenched his hair in angry frustration. "You ARE sick! You've gone downhill ever since we got back, and it's driving me fucking insane! Nothing I do, nothing I say to you makes any difference, you just lie there coughing and sweating and having your nightmares day in, day out! You look like death warmed over, I can't stand it any more! Jesus, Dean, don't do this to me!"

The shouting shut Dean up for a moment. He cursed, and lay back, suddenly and guiltily aware of Sam's tired and disheveled appearance. But he was intractable. "Look," he said quietly, "I'm sorry this is messing you up, and David too. But all I need is a little time, ok? I just need you to leave me alone. I don't need Dr. Douchebag, and I sure as hell don't need any hospital."

"Really Dean? You don't? So David and I are just being irrational? You're fine and if we let you lie here by yourself everything will be ok, is that it?"

Dean gave him a withering look. "Yeah, that's right."

"Fine. Fine, Dean. Then how about you get up, right now, right this second? How about you just leap out of bed and walk ten steps further than the bathroom door? How about you just go on out to the Impala and fire her up? She hasn't been run in a long time, Dean, it isn't good for her, you know that. Come on, let's see you do it! Then I swear, I'll leave you alone!"

Dean glowered at him and swore under his breath. But he got up, slowly, gripping the headboard for support. When he was steady, he stood there, shaking. "Happy now? See? I'm up, no problem."

Sam could see he was lying. Dean was ashen, in a sheen of sweat, he knew he must be experiencing quite a head-rush. "Not good enough. Walk out to the car, Dean. Nothing to it, right? Then I'll shut up."

David stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Dean looked up and growled at him. "Oh, you too? Nice. Just get out of my way then!" He lurched toward the door. David resisted his urge to bolt forward and catch him. And predictably, it was too sudden, too much. Dean took three unsteady steps before the blackout overpowered his senses. He staggered, and grasped wildly for something supportive, up-ending a chair as he sank to the carpet. He swayed on hands and knees, muttering profanities, before collapsing fully to lie wheezing at David's feet.

David knelt beside him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Sam joined him. "You are not fine," the doc said quietly. "You need help." Dean lay on the floor, trembling, trying to shake off the fog and deafening hiss. He didn't bother to argue. David caught Sam's eye and smiled softly, nodding at his unspoken question. He had done the right thing. Dean was as stubborn as they get, and he needed to be shown that it had indeed gone too far. Between them, they carefully lifted him to his feet, and when he could support his own weight they helped him toward the door.

"Assholes, the both of you!" Dean rasped.

David smiled, and winked at Sam.

* * *

Dean was settled, and sleeping. Dennis sat down with David and Sam at the cafeteria. "Ok, boys. Let's talk. Our friend Redbeard in there looks like shit. You did the right thing hauling him in here. David, how about a synopsis of what's been happening with him?"

David filled him in. "Steadily downhill from that day. He's usually an uncannily quick healer, but not this time. I though maybe histoplasmosis at first, but that came back negative. Whatever it is, if it isn't a mental issue, it certainly hasn't responded to broad spectrum antibiotics. Dean's had pneumonia before, after trauma, but I'm not seeing that kind of congestion."

Dennis nodded, scarfing down a ham sandwich in his few minutes of spare time. "We'll get him scanned, and run the gamut. He has thinned out, you weren't kidding." He swallowed half his coffee in a loud gulp. "David, how's the chest wound healing? He was a little fractious when he came in, and I thought I'd better let him settle down, so I haven't seen it yet."

"Slowly. I'm not entirely comfortable with it. Should be further along now, it's granulated, but it's fragile. The original burns are ok."

Dennis noted it. He sat back and finished the rest of his drink. "Sam, fill me in on his mental state. David indicated that he thought there was significant depression."

Sam glanced at David, feeling traitorous in revealing such personal things about his highly private brother. But he knew Dennis needed all the information. "Well, I guess depressed is right. He's listless, not interested in anything, sleeps alot. He hardly eats. And he's having nightmares, almost every time he's asleep. A few times...when I tried to get him to talk about it, I just made him so upset, that he...well, he ended up in tears. He feels a huge amount of guilt over the circumstances of this whole thing, there's a lot to it that you don't know, Dennis. Man, I can't even begin to start explaining the connections, and some of it goes way back. But bottom line is that he feels guilt over things...things that he shouldn't. Not really, anyway. I mean, the nature of what we do is pretty damned harsh, but... well, things need to be dealt with and it's always ugly, and.. Aw christ-I can't even tell you this shit because you only know a sliver of it, and I don't know if you should ever know more than that."

Dennis listened. He stayed silent for a moment, then turned to David. "David, what do you think? Should I know more, or should we just leave it at the fact that Dean is having deep personal issues as well as physical?"

David had already decided. "Dennis, for everyone's safety and peace of mind, let's just leave that as general as we can for now. If it helps, I know the whole story, and it's complicated. But I believe he does not deserve to feel the guilt he's choking on right now. It was a tragedy all around, but he did what he had to do, in all cases."

Dennis had seen things that were deeply unsettling in recent days. And he had decided to trust David Bowman. He nodded decisively. "Good enough for me. I know what I'm here for, we'll get the physical straightened out, and if necessary, I'll send one of our mental health people down afterward, to have a talk with him."

* * *

Sam and David reluctantly left for home. They were exhausted, and since nothing new was going to be revealed in the next few hours, they agreed that it was wise to try to gain a few hours of sleep. Once back at David's comfortably chaotic home, they found their favourite places and sat in tired silence. The only life was a very insistent little dog, who worked hard at fostering his master's interest in a game of fetch over a mud-stained lacrosse ball. David obliged. He threw the ball down the hall, and Mayhem retrieved it with tireless enthusiasm. After some time, David stopped and said to Sam, "Go crash, Sam...in a proper bed this time. Dean's in good hands."

Sam looked up from the carpet. He was very aware of how depleted he was. "I guess I will. Thanks. Gotta admit, I'm pretty tired."

David smiled wanly. "I hear you. I think I'm not long for this world myself." He watched as Sam got up wearily and headed for the stairs. "'Night, Sam. Sleep well... Dean is going to get better, I promise you. I promise.."

Sam turned and offered a lack-lustre smile. "I know, David. Thanks to you." He went up then, disappearing from view. David sighed deeply. "Hope so.." he thought. "I'll be praying for it."

* * *

Both of them had a decent sleep that night, finally. Once the heavy burden of Dean's health had been transfered to others, they were able to give in to their own, over-looked needs.

* * *

Dennis did as he'd promised. He ran Dean through every diagnostic procedure available to him, and David and Sam anxiously awaited the results. It took time, agonizing days, -they had to culture things, analyze data. They were on tenterhooks the entire time, traveling back and forth between the hospital and David's home. Dean remained as he had been, weak, uncharacteristically quiet and ill. Beyond his initial opposition to being taken in, he had little to say, and spent most of the time asleep, or pretending to be so. He hardly noticed the passage of time, or the coming and going of staff around him as they went about their tasks. The nurses could have been moonlighting as Victoria's Secret models, he wouldn't have noticed. He was feverish, and in general malaise, and there was little to be done about it until they had a diagnosis. They kept him as comfortable as he would allow.

But at night, when the activity and vitality of the day had waned, the nurses really earned their pay. The patient who had been so easy, requiring nothing for long periods, would be their focus in the early hours, as he struggled and fought against unseen terrors. It went on for him all night, it seemed. They would check on him and find him in the throes of some terrible dream, or staring wide-eyed in the dark, sweating and disoriented. He never would speak of what was tormenting him, and after a time, he would settle down, assure them he was fine, and refuse any offer of company. And then the cycle would repeat.

"Sshh. It's alright, dear. You're safe, you're in the hospital, it's just a dream it's ok.." The nurse sat beside him and put her hand on his. She'd been in this position before, with him.

He stared at her wildly, comprehension still hindered by the terrors of his dream. "Sammy?" he whispered hoarsely.

She mistook the name he uttered as her own. "That's right, it's Sandy. I'm the night nurse. You've had a bad dream, sweetheart. But you're awake now, so just let it fade."

..Let it fade- He wished it would. He wished more than anything that he could close his eyes again and see nothing but empty, comforting darkness. He worked hard to catch his breath, his chest was burning with the effort. When he got a grip, he shut his eyes in denial. It embarrassed him, knowing others had born witness to his uninhibited emotions. But he was too tired to really care. He smiled weakly, and apologized to her for startling anyone.

"It's all right, honey. Nobody wants to be here, it gives the best of us the sweats." she smiled. She got up and checked her watch. "I've got to do my rounds. Are you sure you're ok? Any pain, or anything odd you want to talk about?"

He almost laughed at her choice of words. Instead, he nodded. "I'm ok...thanks. I'll call you if I need anything, I promise."

She stood watching him, then decided he was safe enough. "Ok. But I'm a call button away, you know that.."

He nodded, and rolled over and shut his eyes. When she was gone, and he was alone again in the darkness, he rolled on to his back and tried in vain to calm down. -i can't do this any more.- he thought in bitter panic. He hated what was happening to him, he hated the nightmares, he hated the memories and the pain and the damned weakness. He didn't know where it would all end up, but he knew one thing for damned sure-he didn't want to be a regular spectacle, bringing the nurses to his bedside with every moan and sound. He wasn't at his most rational point, and he decided he wasn't going to waste any more time in this mausoleum. He felt stifled. as if there wasn't enough oxygen in the air. He wished for a fan, or an air conditioner, or a window that could be opened. He was intensely fearful of being brought in to the local police station, it was a worry that preyed on him until he felt ill. He felt the rise of breathless panic, and this time he couldn't reason it away. He had to get out. He had to get OUT.

When it was quiet again, and no nurses were about, he made his decision.. It wasn't rational. It wasn't in his best interest, nor was it good for those who cared about him. But he wasn't thinking clearly...all he could see was blessed escape.

He sat up, and let his eyes grow accustomed to the dark. The act left him swaying with vertigo, but he stared at the little lights blinking beside him on the monitors, until he got it under control. He pawed in irritation at the cannula that fed him oxygen, and pulled off the electrodes and IV tube. He felt the complaint of pain from his healing stab wound, but he ignored that. Clothes...he needed his clothes. He rummaged in the locker beside his bed and found what he needed. The only things missing were his shoes. He rooted in the darkness but couldn't locate them. It didn't matter to his fevered mind. He knew it was warm enough, it was spring and it wasn't freezing outside any more. And he did this regularly...he remembered leaving hospitals before. It always seemed the best way. He untied the gown that he was wearing and took his time pulling on his own things. Sam was at David's, he reminded himself. He could get there, he could sneak out and find his way to where they were. He pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders and gathered his strength. He didn't spend any energy thinking about the route he needed to navigate, he had no real idea but it was somehow irrelevant. He just needed to get out, into the open, into the air, where he could be free of the things holding him down right now. Under the stars...where the brutal and relentless images had no hold. He was dressed now, and ready to do it. Nothing would be gained by his being cloistered in this damned place, he was sure of it. He just needed to get out, and away.

* * *

It was quiet. He had counted on that, the time when all the other patients had stopped their moaning and sighing and settled down to silent sleep. The nurses were less alert then. They hardly expected anyone to bolt. Dean gripped the chrome bed rail. He steadied himself, cursing quietly but with conviction, and when he was fairly sure he could go further, he made his move.

He stopped in the cool alley beyond the service door from which he'd exited. Staring around, he figured it was safe enough. The only obstacles were several industrial-sized waste bins, and a few smaller receptacles. Good, he thought. Nothing he couldn't handle. Soon he would be at David's. He'd be safe then. Warm, amongst friendly faces... no threats, just their concern, their endless, tiring worry over him...

It nearly stopped him in his weaving tracks. But he was skilled at rationalizing, and he weighed it all. In the end, with fevered logic, it still seemed like a good idea. He mentally measured the distances and lurched forward. He cleared the barriers in front of him and went on toward the streetlight.

He kept moving, shivering and holding his side. Other men in the shadows, bearded, dressed in rags, eyed him for potential gain. But when they realized he carried nothing, and was dressed thinly, they moved on, ignoring him. He stopped in exhaustion finally, staring about his dim surroundings. He didn't exactly have his bearings, and it frightened him. Once or twice, at the point of blacking out, he let himself rest, paranoid about every strange sound and shadow that crossed his path. He knew enough that Atlanta could be a dangerous city at night. Once he felt a little better, he kept moving, hardly aware of where he was headed, until he ended up in some sort of little community park. Swings, a sand-pit... dry wading pool and a jungle-gym structure. He dropped to the grass, exhausted and spent. He crawled over and propped his back against a steel post, erected for some sort of tethered ball game, and for a little while his view swam and spun. He was cold, he coughed until he could hardly catch his next breath, until the pain in his side threatened to make him puke. It was damp in the night air. Any vestige of the warmth of spring had long since fled with the sun. He started to wonder of he'd perhaps made the wrong decision...

* * *

It was yet another silent and tense morning, David and Sam sat in the kitchen, hunched wearily over their tepid coffee and staring distractedly, waiting for the time when visiting hours would begin for the day. Sam glanced at David, and the doc's expression gave him no relief. He could feel the worry radiate from his friend. It tied his own knotted stomach tighter. "They'll find whatever is keeping him down, right? I mean, there's no mystery here, is there?"

David looked up. "Sure...of course, Sam. If it's there, they'll find it, and they'll know exactly how to treat it." David had said nothing to Sam, but his own worry was that Dean had acquired an uncommon but dangerous infection. Spores of all kinds were found in the type of environment they exposed themselves to regularly, and were generally not an issue to healthy people. But when Dean had stood in that grave, he was far from well. Such fungi could have taken hold in his lungs, or worse, if the particular infection that he feared was systemic, it had a high mortality rate. Dean's efforts to save David's job could have dire consequences.

They were there as vistors' hours once again were opened. As usual, they made their way to the room Dean occupied, but the door was closed. Expecting he was being checked over, they returned to the lounge, waiting in anticipation of the door re-opening. Sam went off to grab a few coffees. David tapped his foot in agitation against the shining floor. He glanced up sharply at a familiar voice.

"Hello Bowman."

David shot to his feet. "Dennis! What's the word?"

Dennis Churchill sat down for a rare moment. "Your friend has a serious respiratory issue. Fungal, no question. No wonder it was resistant."

David paled. "Ah, christ-I knew it! It's aspergillosis, isn't it? And he's so damned weak.."

David smiled with the pleasure of besting his colleague. "No, but excellent guess. It's something a little rarer around here, want to try again?" He had misread David's state. If he'd known just how deeply concerned he was, he would have approached it a little more gently.

David stared at him for a moment. "Fuck! Dennis, just tell me already!"

"Right, sorry." Dennis said. "It's Blastomycosis."

David let it sink in, then let out a whoosh of relief. "Oh! Gilchrist's disease, -aw thank god."

Dennis nodded. "Bad enough in his state, but not insurmountable."

Sam had returned in the meantime, cups in hand, and he stared from one to the other. He didn't share in their relief. "Ok, what, this is good?! Would you mind speaking english here?! What the hell is that?!"

Dennis answered. "It's quite infrequent, but it can occur here. It's a fungal lung infection, and it can affect those who come in contact with certain damp soils, and rotting organic material. I guess we all know the most recent source of that, although the incubation typically takes longer."

David nodded. "Yes, but these boys are up to their eyeballs in decaying material on a regular basis, he could have picked it up months ago, and it took hold now because he's compromised."

Sam was still alarmed, but David was obviously pleased. Of all the nasty things Dean could have picked up at the bottom of a grave, in his state this was one of the lesser threats. And he knew that prognosis of full recovery was tangible.

Dennis continued. "That's where the flu-like symptoms, the weight loss, the sweats are coming from. I know David ruled out histoplasmosis early on, and we checked for other, more potentially serious infections, like the other one he mentioned, which can be nothing or rapidly fatal. But this thing is very treatable, and it shouldn't saddle him with any long-term effects. So there you have it, Sam. He's not going to die from this, I promise."

Sam's eyes filmed over. Relief washed over him like a heroin rush. He pumped Dennis's arm, nearly crushing his hand in his enthusiasm, babbling, "Aw man, thank you so much, Doc! We were so worried, I couldn't do anything, he was just fading, and it was driving me nuts, and...well, thanks!"

Dennis smiled crookedly and rubbed his hand back to circulation. "He's not out of the woods yet. He'll have to be clear of it before he goes, and that will take a course of drugs. But in the meantime, you can breath a little easier. We'll get him back on his feet." He turned away, and then came back, advising, "He's fairly incognito, but you, Sam-you're a little more readily identifiable. People may remember you from earlier, so try to limit your time here."

Sam nodded, still a little addled.. "Sure, I understand."

"And David, please- get yourself back home. You look like some kind of street-fighter with those shiners, and not a good one. Stop scaring my patients!" He left then, in his usual hurry.

Sam turned to David, wide eyed and speechless. and struck by an irrational urge to laugh hysterically. He looked to his friend for grounding, after all-he was used to the pace of the hospital.

David smiled and shrugged. "That's normal," he said. "We call him hundred-mile-an-hour-Churchill". He put an arm around Sam's shoulders. "So Dean is in good hands. We have a diagnosis, we have the reason we haven't been able to fix it so far, and we have the means to get him healthy. It's good news, Sam. So- wanna go see him..?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. For a little while." He was suddenly and acutely aware of his days of insomnia now that others had Dean's care in hand. He could hardly string two words together. Sam sighed with relief. They had it covered. Things would turn around now, it would be alright. He followed David out to Dean's room.


	22. Chapter 22

22

Dean realized that he was making no headway by lying in the park. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, but there was dew on the grass now, and he was deeply chilled. His back ached from the narrow and hard support of the post behind him. A hint of light showed on the distant horizon, softly gilding the edges of anything smooth or shiny, and casting long, deep shadows. He put his hands down on to the slippery wet grass and forced himself to get up. With the help of the tether-ball pole, he hauled himself to his feet. Bleary and fevered, he surveyed his situation. And it wasn't heartening. -stupid-he growled to himself. He wondered what the hell had driven him to leave the place where he was at least warm and comfortable. A car drove by, slowly. He could see the array of lights on its roof, it was a cruiser. He remembered then just why he'd abandoned the hospital, and he ducked back, to blend against the bushes. The cruiser drove on, and when he thought it was safe again, he staggered out and kept moving.

He didn't know what direction he'd been travelling. It all looked the same-dark streets, dirty alleys. All he could do was follow the rough brick walls that he used to support himself as he moved forward. He went where they led, and after a labrynth of streets and backdoor passages he finally ended up in a litter-strewn courtyard between old, decaying urban buildings. Exhausted, he slumped against the wall and slid down. -oh yeah, bad idea- he thought, with classically monumental understatement. He was so tired. Breathing was an effort that had debatable merits, as each intake of air cut like ragged broken glass. He coughed, trying to keep it minimal, but failing. It was cold, he watched his breath condense and curl away, and he pulled his thin jacket close, hugging his arms to his middle and hanging his head wearily. He just wanted to rest for a few minutes. Then he'd get up and find his way to David's, to Sam. He shut his eyes, and drifted away to kinder places.

They were only fourteen or so. Too young to be out and wandering the streets at that hour. But the boys were hardened by poverty and violence, and they knew that derelicts often slept here, and they'd heard the urban legends, homeless losers carried money-sometimes thousands, on them. The saw a figure slumped against the brick wall, and they looked to each other, nodding. They approached the man, and stood a few feet away. He didn't stir.

"You think he has anything?" one whispered. The other shrugged. They crept closer, and when Dean didn't react to their presence, they figured it was safe. One of them nudged him. He stirred a little, mumbling a complaint. The bolder of the two grinned at the other, and shoved Dean down, flat against the pavement. Dean squinted at them, confused and reaching a hand out to ward them off. They laughed. But his instincts were so deeply ingrained that he kicked out unexpectedly, tripping one of them. The boy fell, hitting the pavement with a pained grunt. He scrambled back. The bigger boy glanced at his companion, and seeing that he was back on his feet, he raised a foot and planted it in Dean's side, hard enough to roll him onto his back. Dean tried to push them away, but one of them pinned his arms. The other crouched, rifling through his clothes, his pockets, looking for change, or a wallet, anything of value.

He had neither of course. His ID was safely stored with Sam, and he had absolutely nothing of value on his person. He didn't even have shoes. The older boy cursed and stood back, eyeing his mark with disgust. "Aw, this one's useless." he griped.

The younger one grasped Dean's hand and held it up. "Got a ring on him."

His companion peered at it. "Not even gold." he spat. "Even if it's silver, we might get two bucks, if we're lucky." They dropped his hand back to the pavement unceremoniously. It wasn't worth the effort of trying to pry it off him.

Dean had been far too long in the cold. His fever was raging, and he couldn't understand what was happening to him now. All he knew was that they'd kicked him, his side hurt sharply, and the tickle of warm blood was making its way to his back. He groaned and curled on to his side, covering his head instinctively. He heard another voice. Someone else joined the boys. He tried to clear his mind, but sharpness eluded him and he was too fevered to process it. There was shouting, curses, and sounds of scuffle. Footfalls faded into the distance, and Dean felt hands on his shoulders.

"No!" he coughed, struggling. "Leave me alone!"

The hands stayed there, pinning him. Dean stared at the face of this new assailant, but his view was warped, swirling. "Leave me alone-" he croaked again, weakening.

The hands were warm. They didn't pinch, or bruise, they simply held him still with gentle authority. "It's ok.." the man said softly. "It's ok...I'm not gonna hurt you. What's your name?"

Dean blinked hard in the darkness, and stared at him in confusion. His outline in the weak light was large, looming over him. "..Sammy?" he whispered.

The man misunderstood. "Ok, Sammy. My name is Lucas. I'm here to help you." Lucas let go then, and gently guided Dean to sit up.

Dean squinted at him. "Help me?"

"Sure, son. You can't stay here, you know. These streets are dangerous, and there's a better place. Are you hurt? Can you stand?"

Dean nodded uncertainly. He let Lucas take his hand, and the man pulled Dean to his feet.

Dean stood, weaving, shivering in the early morning damp. "I need to...I need to... go."

The man smiled. "Of course. But not tonight, ok? Tomorrow. Right now, there's a warm, dry bed for you. Let me take you there. You can sleep, and go in the morning."

His voice was deep, and comforting. Dean was addled, but somehow, he trusted him. He nodded. "Ok...just for tonight." he said quietly. He let the stranger take him by the arm, and he was led to a van. He got in, and saw that he was not alone. Other men, equally miserable, sat huddled on the seats. They did not look up.

* * *

After a few minutes of travel, the van pulled to a stop. The door opened, and Dean and the others were ushered into a building. They were directed to a room filled with cots, dimly lit, but warm. He stood, eyeing it warily, shaking with cold and unsure of what was happening, and the man explained. "You're at the Boothe Street Mission. You can sleep here, you're safe, no one will hurt you. Just find yourself a bunk, boys. Stretch out. We'll talk in the morning." He pointed toward the row of beds. neat and tidy and orderly. The other men that flanked Dean seemed to understand. They shuffled to their chosen cots, leaving him standing in confusion.

"Sammy, grab a bunk." the man said. Dean stared at him, then at the beds. He tried to speak, but began to cough, and descended into a wracking fit, until he was huddled and gasping. The man took him by an elbow and steered him to a bed, and helped him lie back. Once settled, the stranger pulled his damp jacket off. He saw the small stain of blood where Dean's shirt stuck to his wound. "Mind if I take a look there?"

Dean shook his head.

Lucas pulled the cloth up and assessed the injury. He could see a newly healing scar, and it was weeping a little blood from where it had opened slightly. Other scars, new and old, marked his skin, but they were not an issue now. Lucas had seen a lot in his chosen work, but it shocked him a little to see so much evidence of hard living on one so young. "You're bleeding a little, but it's not too bad. I'll go get some things to clean you up." He left, returning with a cloth and water, and peroxide and a bandage. Lucas took off the stained shirt and worked over the wound. Dean hardly stirred under his ministrations. When he was done, He helped Dean get into a clean tee shirt, and tucked the sheet and blanket over his shoulders.

Dean didn't care at the moment who he was, or what place he'd been taken. He was exhausted, and grateful.. "Thanks." he whispered.

The man smiled. "No problem, friend. Just you rest, all right? Nobody will bother you tonight. In the morning, we'll sort things out some more." He stood then, and turned. Dean watched him go. The stranger spoke kindly to several others who lay in identical beds, finally disappearing through a pair of doors at the end of the room.

He felt the softness of the mattress beneath him. He relaxed in the warmth. It was better than the bricks and pavement, better than the cold and damp night. He slipped away into slumber, with no other thought.

* * *

When morning was growing late, he was alone. The others had been up for hours, and they were in the cafeteria, getting a hot breakfast.

Lucas was back. He remembered the young man he'd brought in last night. This one was a stranger, he knew most of the souls that slept in the streets in the neighbourhood by the mission. But the sandy-haired man was new, and there was something different about him. Lucas was determined to find out more. He entered the room with the rows of cots, and his eyes settled on Dean where he lay. He walked toward him, and sat on the edge of the bunk.

The stranger was still deeply asleep. Lucas looked him over. Thirty-something, he guessed. Lean. His clothing was inadequate, but clean, and not ragged. He knew he'd been shoeless. He pulled the covers back from his neck, and frowned. A fresh and livid scar showed at his throat, he hadn't noticed that one last night. He drew the blanket back further, and checked his arms. There were no needle tracks, no evidence there of any drug abuse. Burn scars, though. Bad ones. And he had good teeth as well, so meth was not his problem. He saw that his one hand sported clear, medical tape. A small hole was centered on the back of his hand. Lucas knew it was from an IV needle. He'd seen them come in before, men fleeing from the hospital. They were usually mental patients, confused and battling their private demons, trapped in their own particular hell. He wondered what terrors this one had lived.

He shook him gently. "Sammy..?"

Dean groaned. His eyes fluttered open.

Lucas saw the sheen of moisture over his features, He put a hand to Dean's forehead.

Dean startled then, shrinking away with a sound of alarm. "Don't-" he rasped.

"Easy, Sammy. I'm just checking on you. Do you remember me from last night?"

Dean only blinked at him, his fearful expression unchanged.

Lucas tried again. "We brought you in from the street, remember? You're safe here in the Mission." He reached out again, and Dean stayed still, watching him warily. Lucas felt the heat radiate beneath his touch, and he drew back. Whoever this "Sammy" was, he was running an impressive fever. "How are you feeling, Sammy?" he asked gently.

Dean didn't understand why he kept calling him that, but he hardly cared. He swallowed drily. "crappy." he whispered.

Lucas nodded. "You're pretty hot. I can get you some aspirin, if you like."

Dean nodded. That seemed like a good idea. He thought of a better one. "Whiskey..?" he tried.

Lucas's kind expression remained unchanged. "Ah..." he thought to himself. -Of course-. "Sorry, son. That's one thing we don't keep around here. I can get you some tea or coffee, or juice, or some water."

Dean nodded. "Water."

"Sure. Stay put, Sammy, I'll get you some." His large frame disappeared down the rows and out the doors. Dean swallowed again, feeling stifled and hot. He shifted to sit up a little. He scanned around the room. There was nothing but rows of cots, and green/grey walls, hung with the occasional dusty framed print. A faded and particularly maudlin Jesus stared directly at him from across the floor. His lank, almost femine hair lay in silken waves over his shoulders, a saccharin Victorian innocence radiating from his pale and proper British features. Dean stared at it for a while, finally flipping it the bird and turning over. His chest was burning, so much so that for a moment he wondered if he'd been rescued from a fire. But memory returned, and he remembered the sequence of events that had brought him to this place.. Way to go, Winchester...he thought, drifting off into feverish sleep again.

When Lucas returned, he saw that his charge was sleeping. He put down his glass and the aspirin, looking Dean over again and frowning. This one was sick, no doubt about it. He could see the flush of heat over his cheeks, where it was deathly pale everywhere else. He'd felt it when he'd touched his forehead. He needed more medical attention than a few aspirin could offer. Unsure of what to do, he decided to turn to a higher power. He left Dean, and went in search of Father Elliot.

* * *

They were met by an empty bed. The covers were pulled back, the mattress was cold to Sam's touch. And more significantly, the IV tube hung loose, and its contents had drained into a puddle on the floor, having been pulled from their intended recipient. Sam turned to David in instant alarm.. "David? Would they have taken him somewhere, for tests or something?" He wasn't sure what he feared more, an answer of yes or no.

David shook his head in shock. "They would never have moved him without his IV. And the moniter contacts are there, on the floor...and his oxygen-"

Sam felt like he would vomit. He knew only two scenarios were possible, and neither was a good one. "Jesus, he's either taken off, or..."

"Or?"

Sam swallowed drily, feeling the rise of panic. "Or somebody took him."

They turned at a voice. Dennis stood behind them, arms crossed and frowning. He had a piece to add to the puzzle. "I was about to call you. His clothes are gone...well, except for his shoes, which are over here under the bed. It'd be my guess that he went under his own steam."

David was shaking his head. "Why would he do that?! He knew he was safe here, we could help him here!"

Dennis shifted uncomfortably. He had some idea as to why. "He had been having some rough nights, nightmares and such. The nurses told me he seemed fearful, and nervous. I'm afraid he may have been overly anxious, anticipating a police presence at any time, and I gather that isn't in his best interest. And frankly I had told him, the first time around, to get scarce as soon as he could, for that very reason... And this time, he was sick, he wasn't thinking clearly.. We have officers in here all the time, in the hallways, maybe he got spooked- "

Sam stared at him, then swore furiously. He kicked the bedframe with a violence that shocked David, then shut his eyes, trying hard to quell the surge of emotion that threatened to swamp him. Finally he spoke shrough gritted teeth. "He does this disappearing act from hospitals regularly. Trust me, Dennis, whether you'd said anything before or not, he'd have done it. I just don't know how the hell he managed it, or where he thought it would get him!"

David remembered, "You've got his wallet, don't you Sam?"

He nodded grimly. "Yeah. And his cell. So he has no ID and no cash. And no shoes, apparently. I can't picture him getting too far."

Dennis had more bad news. "Look, we have got to get him back here and medicated. His illness is something he'll make a full recovery from, but he can't go on without treatment. This does not simply go away on its own, his condition will deteriorate, he could end up in serious distress!"

* * *

Lucas found Father Elliot just settling in to his tiny office. The old priest looked up as he ducked his head in the door. "Morning Lucas." he said warmly.

"Same to you, Father. You got a minute?"

Fr. Elliot smiled. "For you Lucas, always. What's on your mind?"

Lucas told him about their newest charge, and outlined his concerns. Fr. Elliot listened solemnly. Lucas finished, adding, "So I know that these poor bastards are all pretty fearful of anything institutional, but I'm wondering if we shouldn't take him in anyway. I don't like that fever, and he looks fit enough but he's obviously pretty weak now."

Fr. Elliot nodded. "I trust your judgement, Lucas. Let's have a look at him, if he isn't any better off this morning, then perhaps we'll get him in to be looked at."

The Boothe Street Mission had an arrangement with the hospital. From time to time, they had to bring people in who were in particularly poor health. The homeless were generally in rough condition, but it was par for the course for their lifestyle. But sometimes they needed more medical intervention than could be offered at the shelter. The hospital absorbed the cost of their care, as a community initiative. Lucas led the priest to the bedside of the newcomer, and the two of them stood aside, assessing him. Dean remained in fitful sleep, clearly still overheated. He sounded congested, more now than previously. Fr. Elliot noted his pallor and frowned. "Do we have a name?"

"He said Sammy. That's all I got."

Fr. Elliot sat on the bunk gently. He drew the blankets back lightly and stopped, and his eyes fell immediately on the scar at Dean's throat. For a moment he forgot to breathe. His shock was profound, the injury was identical to his own, a torn and unmistakable set of punctures. A vision of terror clouded his mind for a moment, and he shook it away. He said nothing of it to Lucas. Instead, he turned to him. "He certainly looks unwell. And yes, he sounds like he has something, perhaps flu, or even pneumonia. You said he had an IV mark?"

Lucas pulled the blanket down further. "Yeah, that and more. Looks like a hard life so far. I cleaned up a wound there, where it's covered. The damned kids were on him, looking for money, and I guess they were a little rough."

Fr. Elliot's mind was racing. He remembered that day with bitter clarity. The man in black, or whatever he was, had attacked him in the church. He'd struggled with him, gotten wounded, gotten his bell rung. He remembered a follow-up story, about another attack, in the hospital. That one had been thwarted by a man, who had subsequently disappeared, one who matched the description offered by a group of frightened chorists from the church who were met by a lunatic waving a gun about. A man who could easily be the one here now. It was news for days.

He was silent for so long that Lucas became concerned. "Father?" he asked.

Fr. Elliot had kept what he'd experienced that day close to the vest. He remembered being quoted, at the time, as saying he'd seen the devil himself, and he knew that he had looked like an irrational lunatic in the press. He'd had to retreat from that, for the sake of his reputation. But it didn't change the things he'd remembered. It had preyed on his mind ever since. To see this man now, who fit the story, who bore the same marks, was frightening, and heartening at the same time. "I'm alright...just thinking, Lucas." He gently nudged the sleeping man.

Dean was on the cusp of awareness. He opened his dry eyes and looked around in confusion. He tried to focus on the face in front of him.

"Hello, son." the pastor smiled. "I'm Father Elliot."

Dean blinked, nodding slightly in greeting. He stared at the old man in front of him, with no recognition. But that name...

Lucas broke in, "Sammy, it's me, Lucas, from last night. You remember?"

That was more immediate, and he did. He nodded.

"How are you doing this morning?" Lucas asked.

Dean raised a hand, shielding his gritty eyes. He was in the throes of a vicious headache and the morning light was harsh.

"ok." he lied. -Elliot...Elliot... that name... He remembered it then. It was the name of the priest who's identity Johan had assumed. He'd gone into the confessional at the church, he'd started talking...but it wasn't the priest, it was-

They saw his eyes widen, for a moment. "Saint Brigid's." he said, almost imperceptibly.

Lucas didn't see the shock register on the old man's face. "Yeah, that's right, Sammy. Father Elliot is from St. Brigid's. You know the church?"

Dean stared at him He drew a breath, but he began to cough, and it escalated until he couldn't speak. Fr. Elliot turned to his trusted helper. "Lucas, would you mind giving us a minute? I want to speak to our friend here, and it may be personal."

Lucas cocked his head, but he agreed to leave for the moment. "Call me if you need me." he said.

"I will, and thank-you."

* * *

Alone with Dean, the priest leaned forward. "I'm here for you, my son. Whatever brought you to these circumstances, I will help you."

Dean nodded wearily. It was nothing he hadn't heard before.

"You've suffered,...I can see that." the priest began. He hesitated, but continued. "You have a wound at your throat...can you tell me... how you got it?"

Dean raised a hand and covered his neck. "It's nothing.." he whispered.

Fr. Elliot leaned closer. His eyes burned with an intensity that left Dean nervous. "No, it isn't. I believe I know how you came by it. Please, tell me about it. No one else can hear us now."

"Why..?"

The priest glanced around, assuring himself that they were unnoticed. He pulled his collar down, revealing a fresh scar. "Can you see this?" he whispered.

Dean squinted at it. He closed his eyes then, and for a moment, the priest worried that he'd drifted away. But he spoke. "I see it. What do you want from me..?"

Fr. Elliot's eyes shone with emotion. "Tell me what it was...please. I need to know. The dark creature, was it Lucifer...was it the Devil?"

It was so far out of left field that Dean would have laughed if he'd had the energy. Normally he would have evaded the question, lied, covered it up. But he was tired, and the man in front of him knew enough, and deserved his honesty. "No...not him. Vampire. He's gone, I killed him."

Fr. Elliot sat back, and processed what he'd heard. Deep down, he'd known he was right, it was something like that...something from below, dark and evil. No one would have believed him if he'd persisted. He had to know more, he just had to.

Dean coughed again. It was painful, and raw-sounding, and it went on until his eyes were streaming, and he was gasping. Fr. Elliot remembered that this man was far from well. He touched Dean's brow, tentatively at first, then with deeper sympathy. This was no ordinary street denizen, this man had seen and suffered things that the old man could only guess at. He tried to learn a little. "What brought you here, my son? Where have you come from?"

Dean wanted to answer him. He wanted to say that his own stupidity and panic had brought him to this bed. He wanted to tell him to call David, to call Sam. But he couldn't. He couldn't speak, it was too hard now. His coughing had brought blood to his mouth, it flecked his hand where he'd used it to cover. He was so fevered that his skin pricked with heat, and his head pounded relentlessly. He couldn't focus any more, and his eyelids fluttered in rebellion as he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Sammy?" Fr. Elliot said. He tried again, shaking him, and when there was no response, he called urgently for Lucas.

* * *

They'd combed the streets for hours. No one would attest to having seen a man of Dean's description. It was as if he'd simply vanished. David and Sam had split up and covered the immediate area around the hospital, and then in an ever-widening circle. They stopped cab drivers, street people, working girls, anyone that they passed in their search, but none had seen him. The finally met up again, and neither had any good news.

Sam was pacing with panic, frantically trying to think of other possibilities. David voiced their fears. "We may have to go to the police, Sam. I know that's a last resort, but if he was picked up last night, he could be there in a holding cell. And if he isn't, we may have to consider filing a missing person report."

It would be disaster either way. If he had been brought in, he could be in some serious trouble, there was a host of warrants out for him... And to draw attention to him by declaring him as missing could be just as dangerous. Sam stopped his movement and stood, running his fingers through his hair as he debated what to do. "No-no, not yet, at least not the missing person thing. David, maybe you should go there, you could just say you're looking for a patient. It's the truth, after all. Just use a fake name for him."

"Alright. What will you do?"

"I don't know. Damn it, why'd he have to do this?! We were so close to getting this resolved.!"

David had an idea. "Sam, there ought to be rooming houses near by. You could ask around if there are places people crash, empty buildings... And maybe you should check out the YMCA, or if there are any shelters operating. It's a shot, anyway."

It was something. "Yeah, I'll do that. Call me if you hear anything, but don't report him missing yet, ok? That's our last resort."

They separated again, and both prayed anxiously for a happy resolution.


	23. Chapter 23

23

Lucas came quickly. He leaned over the man in the bed, and turned toward the stricken old priest. "Should we get him in?!

Father Elliot nodded. "Lucas, I think he's in a state that needs more than we can offer-"

But Dean had heard, it pierced his fog and he struggled to offer his own opinion. "No-no, please, I'll be ok, don't take me back there-"

Lucas caught his wording. -back there- "Sammy, were you in the hospital, before?"

Dean nodded. "Don't send me back-they'll take me, they don't know-!"

Lucas turned to Fr. Elliot. "Take you where..?"

Dean was struggling to speak, the need for air was growing dangerously acute. "Jail. Father-you know what I do, you know what I hunt- Don't let them- His eyes rolled up then, and he slipped into unconsciousness. His breathing changed, but it did not become easier.

Fr. Elliot stared in wild panic at his friend. "Lucas, tell me what to do! He doesn't want attention, he wants the opposite! And he...he knows things, about what happened in the church, that day!"

Lucas knew some of what the priest had seen that unfortunate afternoon. Not all, but enough to understand his current concern. He scanned Dean where he lay, taking in the details. "Father, I don't know where he comes from or what he knows-but I do know that he's spitting blood, wounded, and fevered. We can't help him here, not any more. This is more than we can deal with-"

Fr. Elliot stared at him, then nodded. "Yes. He needs help." he said, resolutely. "Lucas, can you carry him to the van?"

Lucas nodded. Ambulances were an expensive luxury. The men of the Mission, when it was necessary- were delivered without such official transport. "Yeah, I can. You go on ahead, Father. Get the arrangements made-I'll get him ready to go."

Fr. Elliot hurried off to call. Lucas turned back toward his charge. "Sammy, can you talk to me?"

Dean opened his blurred eyes and nodded.

"Good then. Look, you are in bad shape, ok? Worse than we can fix around here." Lucas saw the man's eyes widen.

Dean shook his head with fevered weakness. "No-I'm ok, -just tired. I just need quiet, please-!"

Lucas pressed a gentle hand to his shoulder. "No, friend. You don't know how bad things are right now, believe me. I seen alot of things in my time. A lot of hurt...and you got a sickness that can't be fixed in this place. That old priest in there-he cares more than you can know, ok? He's seen a lot of shit, and he knows when a man needs real help."

The expression in Dean's eyes then was excruciating. He had words, questions, laments-a hundred emotions, battling to be heard. But they never made it to his lips. He was too sick and tired to argue, and he sighed wearily, and shut his eyes.

* * *

Sam was beyond frantic. He'd scoured every corner, every ugly little filthy, shadowed place, but he'd come up empty. He knew the places that would have drawn his brother, secretive corners, dark alcoves that offered safety, if no comfort- but all of them had proved fruitless. He had to do the next thing now-and check the shelters. The streets were empty of any hint of Dean. He'd heard from David-the doc had also come up empty, which could be interpreted either way, under the circumstances. Sam was feeling an uncomfortable rise of panic. He stopped on a street corner, and he turned to view the scene. It offered nothing. Strangers, concentrating hard on the few paces in front of their feet, brushed past him. Cars drove by, drivers oblivious to his stress. He felt his heart rate rise, and for a moment, he felt faint with the awareness that he had nothing,-nothing-to go on.

He cursed, and told himself to calm down. He took a few deep, slow breaths, and looked around with heightened clarity. A light standard was stapled thickly with paper, and he strode toward it, peering at the weathered posters. Various events were advertised, some current, some far from it. But amongst the tattered papers, a simple sheet caught his eye. "Boothe Street Mission" it read. "For those who need respite from the street. All Welcome." Sam copied down the address. It was a start.

* * *

Lucas was strong. He bundled up his charge, and arranged him in the back of the Mission van. Dean was in no position to argue further. He was coughing constantly, bringing up rusty spit, and fevered to the point of incoherence. If he could have found his legs he'd have taken the opportunity to bolt rather than returning to the danger of the very public hospital, but it was no longer an issue. He tried to walk with Lucas' support but he wasn't strong enough, and he was forced to accept whatever he was dealt in terms of help. Pride was a luxury that was reserved for better men.

The drive was short. Father Elliot reassured Dean that nothing bad would befall him where they were going, they were all there to help him. "We have a special arrangement with the facility-you won't have to give your name, son. Sometimes people just need a leg up, and that's what we're here for."

Dean nodded. His chest was burning, and he had a splitting headache that made his eyes feel like they would burst. He passed in and out as they drove, and the they came up under the Emergency canopy. The rest was a blur for him. The smells were familiar, the muffled voices, and the touch of capable hands. He was taken to a ward this time, a large room filled with other sufferers who had no insurance for private rooms. Lucas and the priest explained their stranger's illness, and he was taken away. He was stripped of his clothing, dressed in a hospital issue gown, and put on an IV. The attending physician, young and harried, quickly assessed him and decided that this was the typical ailment that street dwellers were subject to, and began an antibiotic treatment. Dean was unaware of their discussion of him, he was far away.

"In a couple of days we should see some significant improvement." the doctor assured. "I take it this the usual protocol?"

Fr. Elliot nodded. "Yes. Just another nameless man who came in to the mission. Put it on the Boothe tab." he smiled.

The doctor made a note. "He looks pretty clean, and generally in better shape than the last few you brought in here. Do we know anything about him?"

Lucas answered. "I picked him up last night. He was being roughed up by a couple of kids. Got an injury there, on his side, that might need attention. He didn't say anything about how he got it, likely won't either. But I was worried about him, he seemed pretty sick. Thanks, as always, for taking him in."

The doctor was only half listening, his name was being called yet again over the system. "Yeah, we'll take care of him. I have to go-" He hurried off to the next trauma needing his skills, and Lucas looked down at Dean where he lay wheezing in sleep. "Well, I guess that's all we can do right now. Do you want to head back?"

Fr. Elliot shook his head. "In a bit, Lucas. I think I'll just sit here for a while, in case he wakes and is fearful. Why don't you head down and grab us something to eat? I suspect you're starving, I certainly am."

Lucas grinned. "Reading my mind, as usual. I'll be back in about fifteen minutes."

* * *

Once Lucas was gone, Fr. Elliot turned back to Dean. He took out his bifocals, and examined the marks on Dean's throat. Vampire. It seemed outlandish, ridiculous. The man was a street dweller, and most of these unfortunate souls had some sort of mental disorder. He peered closer, and his fingers felt the scar at his own neck. He saw a small, stitched and irregular tear on the stranger's skin. And a number of punctures, in pairs. He sighed with deep discomfort. If he hadn't seen the creature himself, if he hadn't felt the teeth bite through, he'd have shrugged this man off as an unfortunate lunatic. But his recent, terrifying experience had opened his eyes in a way he wished they hadn't been. God was his master, but he was comfortably distant. Father Elliot didn't need to think about miracles and magic, his faith was fulfilled by the ordinary. He believed he saw His works in simple ways, through ordinary men, and within the safe framework of the regular world as he knew it. To know that there were other forces here, evils with a visceral presence that could do as they wished, independent of the rules, as he knew them, made the priest shudder with anxiety. "I'm too old for this..." he whispered miserably. "Don't change the game on me now.."

And what of this young man? It seemed he made it his business to hunt such things...Why? Why did he put himself in such peril? What drove him to this good work? A vocation..? Another way to serve God?

The questions could only be answered by the man unconscious here in this bed. A blue mark peeked out beyond the loose neck of the hospital issue gown, and Fr. Elliot carefully pulled the cloth down. A tattoo was revealed- a strange symbol. He had no idea what it was, but he thought it looked decidedly un-christian. There was certainly more to the mystery of this man...

A nurse came by with a bag. "He didn't have much, just this ring, Father. And a necklace of some sort. Will you hold it for him?"

Fr. Elliot took it from her. "Yes, thank you." She left, and he opened the bag and shook out the contents. A ring, silver, and plain. It was nicked all around, and he smiled to himself. He wore a ring himself, and it bore the same scars. It was a bottle opener, if nothing more. The necklace was something different, however. He peered at it closely. It looked like old, weathered gold, on a leather lace. It was well worn, and the image was that of some sort of horned head, pagan and strange. He dropped it back into the bag with a feeling of revulsion. This man knew things, and he needed to speak with him. He hoped his health returned quickly, he had so many questions. He wondered why he was in this state, and found huddled on the street. He wondered how long he'd been homeless, or if he was fleeing something. His fear of the hospital was telling...

Fr. Elliot sighed. He felt a sharp pang of guilt-so far all his concern for this man was pretty self-serving, and he prayed silently for forgiveness. He then said a blessing for Dean, hoping God would hear him.

* * *

Sam found the place. The building was large, old, from the twenties or earlier. It had a small sign above the door, and he went up the steps, peering in through the dusty window. He could see a hallway, and not much more. He entered, and called out a tentative hello. A woman popped her head out of an office. She smiled. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah...I'm looking for someone. He went missing, and I thought maybe he might have ended up here..."

The woman nodded. "Most of our residents today have had their breakfast, and many have already gone. But you can poke your head in the door to the sleeping room, perhaps your friend is still there." She pointed toward it and Sam stepped into the room, surveying the rows of cots. Dean was not amongst the few who occupied beds.

He returned to the woman. "He's not there. Would you know if a man was here, about six-two, early thirties, sandy short hair, maybe had a cough?"

She shook her head. "No, sorry. I wasn't here last night. Lucas would know, but he's out with Father Elliot at the moment. Why don't you call later in the afternoon, when they get back in?"

"Um...sure, thanks." Sam wrote down the number she recited, and asked if there were other, similar places in the area. She gave him the names of a few. "Are you looking for family..?" she asked.

"Yeah. He's my brother."

"Ah." she said with a knowing sympathy. He didn't want to hear her further extrapolations of the situation, so he thanked her and left. Back outside on the street, he stared at his short list of addresses. Each of them was yet further from the hospital. He knew Dean was on foot, and vulnerable. If he made it so far as one of these other places, he was lucky. Sam sighed, and called David.

David answered with a question. "Find anything?"

"Not yet. I checked out one shelter but they didn't know anything. I have a few other addresses here to see. I take it you came up empty..?"

David's answer was terse. "Squat. I guess it's good... But nobody came to police attention that resembled your brother. How about I meet up with you?"

Sam agreed. "My next stop is a "Y" on Westchester. I'll wait for you."

* * *

The two met there, and they left again with no new information that could link to Dean.

It was the same for all the places Sam had written down. By late afternoon, they'd exhausted all their leads, and both were tired and dejected. They took a breather at a burger place, and they sat in silence, drinking coffee and picking at their food order long after it had gone cold.

Sam rubbed his weary eyes. "I don't know what to do now, David." he said, not expecting any suggestions.

David simply nodded. "Dennis has been calling. He's very concerned that Dean is out there without the right meds to fight off this thing."

Sam snapped up in renewed alarm. "Well what if he doesn't get treated? I mean-can this do him in any time soon?!"

David regretted relaying Dennis' fears, but Sam had to know. "If he doesn't get treatment, he will have so much interference with lung function that his blood oxygen will be affected. You've seen the result before, cyanosis-confusion, weakness, breathing distress. He's already vulnerable out here, if he gets to that state, we don't know what he could get himself into. We have to find him, and soon."

Sam swore softly, and rested his head in his hands. "Christ! Why the hell did he go AWOL? Why the hell can't he ever see what's good for him?! I swear to God, David-when he's up and healthy I'm gonna really pound him!"

David squeezed his shoulder and rose. "No you won't. But it does make a damned satisfying mental picture, I just might borrow it for a while. Let's get back to it."

Sam took a deep breath and stood with him, and they left the restaurant and returned to the street.

* * *

Dean was in the middle of his own crisis. He was asleep, but far from resting. The dreams flew at him in a relentless onslaught, imagery of savage ugliness, heavy with blame and guilt and misery. His mind was stuck in a loop of self-reproach over the whole series of incidents, and it invented countless ways to torture him over it. And everything was his fault. He was solely responsible for all that had happened, at least in his own twisted account. The pain he felt over it coloured all his memories, his efforts had brought nothing good, everything he'd taken as canon was now uprooted. The dreams ground in the same message-his life was nothing but lies and unforgivable violence, hubris and ego and misguided zealotry that hurt more people than it ever saved. He was incapable of recognizing the countless incidents where he and Sam had made a great difference. His guilt-laden subconscious struck all of that from the record, and condemned him harshly for what little remained.

Father Elliot watched him twitch and frown, and moan. He saw the tears that squeezed from his closed eyes. He tried to wake Dean gently, to deliver him from his nightmare, but Dean would not surface.

Lucas returned with something to eat. The priest took what was offered, hardly tasting it.

"Are you ok, Father?" Lucas asked.

Fr. Elliot smiled wanly. "Yes. I'm just a little worried for him. He has some...disquiet, and I can't seem to ease it for him."

Lucas was practical. "Well, these are damaged folk. But he's in the right place. The docs here will fix him up, Father. You can't do anything for his soul or spirit until they patch up the rest of him, right?"

Father Elliot brightened a little. "As always, Lucas-you have clear bead on things. Let's head back to the mission. I think our friend here is in good hands. We can check on his status later. There are other street-weary souls waiting for some comfort."

* * *

It was a strange convergence that brought them together. After two days of deteriorating health in his nameless patient, the young doctor felt the need to seek advice from his superior. And the surgeon he sought out was one who had a reputation for being an expert in chest issues. He was prickly, but excellent. One Dennis Churchill. When he was finally able to pin the man down for a conversation, his description of the patient caused the elder surgeon's eyes to widen almost comically. "What? Where is he?! Take me to him!"

And Sam, having searched with David fruitlessly for days, was beyond frantic now, and he remembered the number he'd written down, from the first shelter. He called it, and reached the one named Lucas. And Lucas confirmed that a man had, indeed, been in the shelter who matched the description perfectly. That man was now in Atlanta General. He and David floored it to the hospital.

The three of them met, and their astonishment was quickly squelched by the state that Dean was in. An old, stooped priest sat beside him, white-haired and disheveled and holding his hand. Unconscious, and grey in complexion, Dean struggled to breathe with sounds so alarming that it had Fr. Elliot in tears. He turned toward the group, waiting to hear their connections to it all.

Dennis shot a look of astonishment at Sam, and barked at the young colleague. "What's he on?!"

The young doctor wilted under Dennis's glare. "Erithromycin-"

"Waste of time. This has already been diagnosed, and it's been going on way too long-get him on amphotericin B, immediately!"

The drug had a host of serious effects. "Sir? Are you sure? I mean, the indications are that this is the usual bacterial pneumonia. It's typical of these people, they come in here in poor physical condition, addicts, drunks, and they all-"

Dennis turned to him and glared. "I'm going to ignore the fact that you're questioning me. This patient is not your typical street dweller, he has been in my care for blastomycosis. He left, several days ago, before we could administer treatment. He's critical now, as you can see for yourself. I'm not going to waste time on anything milder now, just get him on it."

"Of course, Doctor Churchill," he stammered.

"Good! And if I ever hear you refer to anyone who comes in here as "typical" again, you'll be neutering cats at the pound for a living! No person will be marginalized and given inferior treatment at my hospital, regardless of how they look or where they come from, understand?!"

"Yes sir." He fairly ran to make sure the treatment was implemented. Dennis turned to Sam and David. "How the hell did you know he was here?"

Sam answered. "I called a homeless shelter, one I'd checked earlier. David and I scoured the whole damned city, and when we had nothing to show for it I called the number of the closest one again to see if they knew anything. And they sent us here." He sat beside Dean, hardly noticing the other man who sat hunched and tired. "Dennis, he looks looks shit-will he be ok?"

Dennis was still in shock that his patient had been under his nose, unbeknownst to him, for several days. "That drug is harsh, but it's warranted now. We'll have to see how hard the side-effects hit. Jesus Christ, I can't believe this!"

David understood the gravity. He turned to Sam. "Sam, there will be possible repercussions-This drug is a last resort, it's very hard on the system, with possible kidney failure, liver damage. Fever and illness are often a product of treatment. He's not in a strong state..."

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "Can't you guys give him something else? I mean a couple of days ago this hardly seemed serious-"

"Those days were critical, Sam. Look at him-he's showing a pronounced bluish tone in his lips, and the quick of his nails. He's getting starved for oxygen."

Sam had nothing to say. He knew Dennis and David knew what they were doing. He was still bewildered to have found Dean at all. He stared around the room, seeing nothing, and his eyes settled on the old man. "And who the hell are you?!" he demanded.

Father Elliot rose stiffly. He introduced himself, and explained his presence. "We brought Sammy in, when he came to the Boothe Mission. He was too ill for us to deal with, so we brought him here."

Sam shook his head, confused. "Sammy?!"

"Yes. That's the only name we know him by. He said it when Lucas asked him."

Sam shook his head. "No, no, you must have misunderstood-I'm Sam. He's my brother, his name is Dean."

The information brought a pang to Fr. Elliot's breast. "I've been calling him Sammy all the while. He must have been asking for you, before. He never corrected me. And he never said a word about any of this. He said nothing, he told us nothing...just drifted in and out, battling his terrible nightmares, struggling so hard... No matter what I said, none of it, nor any of my prayers, made any difference." He was clearly distraught. "But he spoke, oh heavens-he said so much, in his sickness.."

Sam froze. Dean's achilles heel when he was fevered was his uninhibited rambling. "He does that, father...it's just nonsense, believe me." He turned toward Dean, and his heart sank at his appearance. He looked like a man over whom a priest should be hovering. "He's got a lot going on." he added quietly.

Fr. Elliot turned to him. He lowered his reedy old voice to a whisper. "I know he does. Some of it, anyway. I must speak with you, about your brother, it's very important-"

Sam agreed, his expression guarded. He didn't know what Dean had said, and how much the old man knew.

"Good. And I am so very pleased to see our friend surrounded by his loved ones now...such a relief. I will leave you in peace, I have duties to attend to. Please, Sam-call me when you can. Tell me how he's doing. I may be old and bent, but I'm not delicate, ...this city is hard, and full of strife, and I can take what you have to say. You can meet me at your leisure at St. Brigid's Catholic church, here's my number."

..St. Brigid's...Sam remembered the name. It was the church Dean had gone to, to talk to someone, but he'd found Johan instead. The priest there was found injured, it was in the news. He scrutinized the old man with new interest. "I will, I promise."

* * *

Chapter End Notes:

I'm posting these from a Mcdonalds, free wifi ;) So be kind, I know there are weird punctuation issues and no italics where I wante them. But to correct these would have me sitting here for hours, getting the stink-eye from the staff, lol.


	24. Chapter 24

24

Dennis had him moved to a room on his own again. He didn't want attention drawn to this unique patient anymore than the others did. He still had a complicated job beyond this particular and unusual distraction, and his focus had to be the hospital and its funding and reputation. He was deeply rule and regulation oriented, and the Winchesters, and what they did, were something so far out of that realm, that he couldn't begin to think of how he could explain their story, so he prefered to keep them as far from the spot-light as possible. Dean was settled into the private room and all the monitors and wires and tubes were reconnected. His identity was hidden, as always.

But Dennis wasn't without empathy. He knew so much more now than he had before, and was very aware that Dean had been struggling, in many ways. He wanted to see him triumph over these pressures. And then they could all go away.

The amphotericin was brutal on the system, and he didn't like to prescribe it. But the infection was so advanced that it was dangerous to attack it with anything else now. He fervently wished him luck. Sam and David joined him in the room as he stood frowning over his unusual patient.

Sam was exhausted. His emotions were close to the surface, and he sat heavily beside his silent brother. "When will we know if this drug is working, or if it's a problem..?" he asked.

"One to three hours." Dennis sat for a moment, a rarity for him. He ran a hand over his face, and sighed. "It's very effective, it'll rid him of the infection. But he may show symptoms that are worse than the illness, at least at first. Generally the side effects will subside, or at least lessen, after the initial doses. People tolerate it differently. And Dean may be battered, but he's strong."

"Symptoms like what?" Sam demanded. He'd come this far, he was damned if he was going to have his brother succumb to the cure that was supposed to save him.

"Fever. Chills. Nausea. Breathing difficulties. Renal issues. Those are the first to surface. It's a toxic drug."

Sam slumped. "Great. Beautiful. And this is the best we can offer..."

"Afraid so. If Dean had stayed put, we'd have been able to tackle this differently. But he gave me no choice, -for god-knows-what reason, he made the decision to bolt."

Sam felt a well of frustrated anger rise within him. Most of it was directed toward Dean, but a healthy dose was leveled at Dennis. "Maybe he wouldn't have felt so damned threatened here if you hadn't pushed him out into the street a couple of hours after surgery in the first place!"

Dennis took it. He had felt guilty about that, but he knew his reasoning had been sound. He let Sam vent, then responded with uncharacteristic gentleness. "I know you're angry about that, Sam. And I did feel like a bastard, believe me. But the truth was, there were police waiting in the wings to go over this whole story with a fine-toothed comb, and your brother was in no shape to extricate himself from that kind of scrutiny. I think he would agree with me on that."

Sam opened his mouth, but he shut it, and turned, when Dean answered instead. The stricken man's voice was quiet, laboured but firm. "Shut up Sam. Cut him some slack, he's right. My ass would have been in a sling if we hadn't slipped out that night. But this time, I left cuz I panicked, I over-reacted. And I screwed it up by leaving. So yeah...my bad..."

Sam forgot the issue. He leaned toward Dean, who struggled to keep his eyes focused. "Hey! You're still with us..."

Dean smiled wanly, whispering, "Yeah, for now. Don't get too used to it."

David took the opportunity while Dean was sentient. "Christ, Winchester, do you have any idea what hell you put all of us through?! I swear to God, I'm going to strap your damned wrists to the bed-rail!"

Dean stared, from David to Sam and back. He was far from sharp, but it hit him. "Sorry-" he whispered. "I thought... I just figured..." He didn't finish, but the gist of his apology was clear.

Sam put a hand on his arm. "Stop talking, stupid. I'm so gonna thump the crap out of you later, so you're wasting your breath anyway. Just get better. You owe us all that much."

Dean nodded. He had no energy to say any more, and he fell silent. David tried further. "Dean, can you follow what I'm saying now?"

He nodded slightly.

David continued. "Dennis has you on some medication, and it will cure your infection. But you will get sicker with it, and you need to keep fighting it off. Do you understand what I'm saying..?"

Dean squinted at him in confusion. "You already said I'm sick."

"I know, Dean. But when you left, your illness got a stronger grip. And so your meds have to be stronger too. And they'll be hard on you, you're going to feel like you're a lot worse before you're better. I need you to stay with us while that happens..ok?"

Dean tried to answer in the way they wanted. "Yeah, go ahead-whatever." He added to it, "Just help me get rid of this god-damned headache-please. I can't take it any more."

Knowing full well that Dean's lot was about to get harder, David agreed. "We'll do everything we can. Just you do the same. ok?"

Dean nodded unconvincingly. Sam caught it, he recognized that they were being humoured, and his frustration and tension breached the banks. "Don't you fucking lie there and nod, damn it! I know you went through hell, but so have we! Do you even have a clue as to what you put us through with your damned disappearing act? David and I searched this whole damned city, for days and days! I thought you were gone, Dean! I thought this was it..! Again!"

Dean blinked at him in shock at his outburst. "Sammy, -jesus, I'm sorry, but-"

"Just shut up for once! Put some god-damned backbone into this, for my sake! I don't care what the hell is going on in that screwed-up head of yours-all you need to do right now is concentrate on healing! David and Dennis are trying to warn you that things are going to get harder for you. Don't waste all our time now, damn it!"

Dean recoiled a little at Sam's harsh and emotion-laden words. "Fine! I'll get through it, ok? Christ!" He looked away, his eyes hot and blurring. "What do you want from me? I feel like shit, I'm laid-up, it's not like I have any say in this now!"

Sam softened. "That's just it, Dean...you have every say. You hold all the cards. These guys here can pump you full of every drug they know, but you have to keep pace. If you aren't trying, nothing good will come of this."

Dean stared at his brother's weary face. He turned toward David, who was equally worn and haggard. He realized the deep pain his friends and family were feeling. He answered. "Get me out of here. I'll do whatever you want, ok? just get me home."

..Home. Sam pondered that last word over and over as he sat with Dean over the next few days. Dean shook violently, reacting to the medication. He was soaked with sweat, moaning with the ordeal. Several times, Sam had been forced to call for a nurse as Dean was nauseated from the drug. He sat in sympathetic discomfort as Dean retched until he was exhausted.

* * *

He wasn't alone in his vigil. David was there, often. His bruised eyes were fading toward a normal tone now, and he had resumed his duties at the hospital. He was obsessive in his monitoring of Dean, and he spent every spare minute he had by his bedside. Dennis checked in often, making sure everything was manageable.

And the old priest, Fr. Elliot, was there as often as he could be. He was there to see Dean through his trials, but he had his own agenda too. When he found Sam to be in a mood to talk, he found the right segue, and he pressed him.

"Sam...you said that Dean came to St. Brigid's. Why did he come to my church that day? Was it because of the black creature, the vampire? Did he come to kill it?"

Sam was taken aback by the question. "Um..no. Actually, he was wound up, angry, miserable, and had a lot of things on his mind, about some recent events. He just wanted to talk to someone, not me or David or a shrink, but someone else...somebody objective, but still safe. He came across your church, and he decided to do the confession thing."

"He..came in for confession? How did he know then that the creature was there..?"

"He didn't. It followed him. Apparently it had been tailing him for a while, toying with him, like a cat and mouse. It's all very involved, but the vampire Johan and Dean were well aquainted. Father, you are lucky to be alive. That thing left a bloody wake of death and pain, it wasn't known to leave breathing victims. But it's gone now. It can burn in hell for everything it's done."

The priest nodded, taking it in. "Johan? It had a name..?"

Sam shrugged. "So does the Devil."

"Yes...true. But why did Dean want confession? What was he seeking from the church? Is he so great a sinner that he needed redemption that day..?"

Sam almost smiled. "He's a sinner, Father, as much as the rest of us. And most of his sins are things he'd never confess, and he'd do again in a heartbeat. No, this time, he's got it wrong. This vampire incident has a lot of back-story. And Dean feels a huge weight of guilt over how it played out. And it's colouring his whole perception now of who he is and what he does. I can't fix this for him, I wish I could. He's...he's not trying to heal, Father. I think he's resisting it.. He keeps saying he's tired. I'm beginning to realize just how deep that feeling is running. He's in good hands with doctor Churchill and David. They should be able to get him through this. But he was brought close to dying already, thanks to Johan, and now...his own mind is trying its damnedest to finish the job."

Fr. Elliot leaned forward. "Tell me the story, Sam. From the beginning."

Sam hesitated. "Father, I'm not so sure you want to know this. It'll steal your peace of mind, trust me, and that's an incalculably valuable thing. Once your eyes are opened, you can't close them to this. Most people blithely go through life believing monsters and fairytales are nothing but fantasy. It's a happier way to live, trust me."

The priest nodded. "I understand what you're saying, Sam. But my eyes have been opened, remember. The scar on my neck attests to that. Sure, they were pried open by other hands, but the light and dark are flooding in, whether I'm comfortable with it or not. I need to understand what I've seen. And your brother came to me for help, and I swear I will give it to him, as much as I can.. I can't do that without an education."

Sam knew that the priest was already somewhat indoctrinated. He mused for a moment, and made up his mind. He began to relate the story.

* * *

Finally, he finished his conversation with the old man. He held little back, because he knew that Dean had chosen to seek solace from the man originally. He told the whole convoluted story, Conrad, Iris, Paul...and Johan. And he explained their own history, and why the revelation that there were honour-bound vampires would have such an impact on his brother. Brotherhood...kin...these were at the root of Dean's distress. Dean had taken Iris's only family from her. Fr. Elliot had listened in silence, working hard to be as objective as he could under the circumstances of his new-found knowledge and terrifying experience. In the end, he stared at Sam, and at Dean, with a deep sadness.

"You have a very difficult path." he finally said.

Sam looked down. There wasn't much to say.

Fr. Elliot's eyes rested on Dean for some time. Finally he spoke. "Your brother has deep, deep wounds. I'm not talking about what is visible. I certainly have no condemnation for him over any of this, regardless of how he feels. Conrad died, yes. But it was for the best. And his friend Paul, he too knew that his existence, no matter how hard he tried to keep it moral, was doomed. I'm saddened to know that he was a man of religion, but I am heartened by his decision to seek his own death. I believe both these men are in the glory of God now. Neither had asked for their curse and both fought hard against the nature of it. And poor Iris. Such a tragic, lost soul. Losing her family in such brutality. But she redeemed herself in the end, I believe. She saw the error of her way. I know she did horrible things, but she tried in the end to undo it. We are all human, in the end. Ruled by our emotions and experiences. If we see the folly, the sin in our actions, and we recant, even on our deathbeds, we are taught that our souls are safe. I would be hard-pressed to believe that any of them were condemned to hell."

Sam was relieved to hear the priest's perspective. "Please, Father..." he asked quietly, "Make him understand that. Convince him. Nothing I say right now makes any difference. But you-you might be able to show him. He'll never get through this if he has so much self-loathing that he doesn't even think it's worth trying to survive. It's been such a long, long haul, since my dad died. He needs to hear from someone else, from somebody who's closer to grace, that he's worthy and..."

He stopped speaking and his eyes welled. "Sorry. It's just been hard... really hard.."

Fr. Elliot found it very difficult to keep his own emotions in check. But he did so, because he was needed now. "Sam, I swear I will be my most eloquent in my argument. I've said a hundred thousand homilies in my day, I know how to move a person's mind and heart. Dean is strong, I realize that. And with that comes stubbornness, and hard-headed willfulness. I know he's convinced himself of certain things. And I know it'll take a miracle to steer him in a new direction. When he is clear enough to hear me out, you let me know. I'll hear his confession, if he's still willing to offer it. And you have my word that my answer will be good for him. I pray it'll be enough to break him out of his malaise."

Sam looked at him with a raw and grateful expression. "Thank you, Father." he said. "It will mean alot to him. And me..."

Father Elliot smiled and rose, patting Sam's shoulder. It was the first time in a long time that he felt he had a real impact on the Whole. He and Lucas, and their volunteers, they did what the could for the most damaged and hopeless layer of society. But they knew that whatever they did, the people they helped would end up back in dire straits, unable to help themselves, and wasting their lives in a rush toward pointless ruin. But this time, he felt he could aid a man who did real work.

* * *

He never got the chance. Father Elliot was an elderly man, working well past the age that most retired. He drank a prodigious amount, a "sin" he was unwilling to give up. He smoked occasionally, on particularly difficult days. And he had a family history of vascular issues. He was found, in his bed, dead, two days later. The coroner ruled death by massive stroke. It was Lucas who'd found him. Alerted by the priest's frantic housekeeper, he'd gone to check on the old man, and he found him, cold and stiff. Fr. Elliot's face was peaceful and his eyes were closed. He'd clearly died in his sleep.


	25. Chapter 25

25

After several very difficult days, Dean had begun to tolerate the drug a little better. His persistent headache had subsided, and the fever was waning. His laboured and raw breathing was settling down, proving that despite it's negative impact, the drug was doing its job and clearing the infection out. He was able to participate in short periods of conversation, even if his answers were curt and uninspired. Sam was relieved to see him gaining against the odds. One particular morning, he brought the subject of Father Elliot up. They hadn't seen the old priest in several days. "You remember him, from the church, right? The church that Johan turned up in?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. He was here, a few times. He had some things going on, that he wanted to talk about."

Sam was pleased. "Yeah, he said he wanted to talk with you. Dean...do you think you'd be up to it if I called him? He's really concerned about how you're doing."

Dean shrugged after a moment. "Yeah, sure. Call him. He had some questions, about Johan and crap...I can help him, if he still wants."

Sam smiled inwardly. The 'help' would be two-way. He went through his wallet, locating the number. He dialed, and it rang and rang. "I guess he's at the mission." he figured. "I'll call there."

He called the alternate number, and another voice answered. Sam identified himself, and the one called Lucas answered.

"Oh...oh you're with the man who-" Lucas stopped. wary of saying more. "Um.. I got some real bad news. Father Elliot passed away on Tuesday. He had a stroke."

Sam stammered condolences, aware that his brother was listening. "Was it, I mean, did this happen out of the blue..?" he asked, fearing the response.

Lucas replied sadly. "Nothing unexpected, unfortunately. Old age, and hard work, they finally caught up... I'm sorry, but I can't help you right now. Got some arrangements to make..."

Sam thanked him. He told Lucas that he would call later, and that the poor, late priest's efforts had been very, very appreciated. Lucas appreciated hearing it.

Dean had watched Sam as the conversation played out. He knew immediately that something was wrong. "What?!" he demanded. "What happened?"

Sam was dry-mouthed. He was in shock that the old man had passed. He swallowed hard and answered. "The priest..Fr. Elliot. He's gone, Dean. He had a massive stroke, totally natural. Lucas said...he said it was inevitable, he said there was a family history... They're in the middle of making arrangements."

Dean stared at him, his face a mask of frozen emotion. "You're sure it was normal?! Nothing got to him, no demons, no-

Sam shook his head. "Lucas, his assistant-he said it was something they'd all expected eventually...lifestyle, family history... They're arranging his funeral and stuff right now. Poor bastard actually sounded like he was upset over them not looking in on you.."

Dean turned away, shaken. Fr. Elliot was gone, a man he'd felt comfortable in confiding the sordid tale of the most recent details of his convoluted life. He was dead and gone. No one was left to function as his confessor, his un-biased sounding board. Nobody was left to listen.

Dean felt the dry cotton of his mouth try to choke him. He croaked a response. "Are they sure it was natural? Nothing else, nothing from...nothing unusual?!"

Sam put a hand on his arm. "Dean...this sucks, but it was natural. People die, good and bad. And old men give it up to what they have going on, you know? Lucas said Fr. Elliot had a history of this kind of thing. Dean-he was old, really old. He was working well past the requirement. He died like he was meant to. It had nothing to do with you."

Dean blinked, as Sam spoke. Finally he nodded slightly. "Yeah. He was counting down, I get that. He was working through his golden years..."

Sam nodded. "He died with a peaceful look, Dean. Lucas said so. It was nothing you or I involved him in."

Dean stared at the wall, barely acknowledging Sam's voice. Silence reigned for an uncomfortable amount of time.

"He was what, pushing eighty..?" Dean whispered finally.

Sam wasn't sure. "Maybe, I don't know."

Dean kept staring at the distance. "He was pretty spry. Pretty happy, before I showed up..."

Sam snapped to. "Happy? Maybe, maybe not, we can't guess. But it was Johan that threw the wrench into the works, Dean-not you."

The bitterness welled up in Dean, choking him. "Johan wouldn't have been part of his experience if it weren't for me. I went to that damned church. I should have stayed home that day, I should have sucked it up and... Christ, I brought that sonofabitch into his world."

Sam's heart tightened. "Dean, you couldn't have predicted this. Lucas said Fr. Elliot had a family history of this kind of thing. It was a matter of time."

Dean stayed silent. The wall rose, Sam's words failed to penetrate anymore. The priest, who'd forged a good life helping the hopeless, had come across Dean Winchester, and he had died as a result. Clearly Dean's acquaintance had stressed him, or shocked his world. Elliot would be here today if it hadn't been for the malignant Winchester touch.

Sam tried, over and over, but it was useless. He saw the set of Dean's jaw, the grim refusal of his efforts. Dean had been gaining slowly with the meds, despite the effects. He had been coming back to them, incrementally. He'd thought it was on a positive path now. But with this new information, and its effects, they were back to square one.

David was watching the effects like a hawk, as was Dennis. Both were pleased at the result, the infection was being beaten back, and the side-effects had lessened significantly. But David knew Dean, and his listless disinterest was something that kept him up at night. Twenty days of treatment were required, and eight had passed. Technically, it was on the path to successs. But David watched helplessly as Sam tried and tried to keep Dean involved and participating in the present. But his efforts were failing. Dean was still experiencing nightmares, and he was clearly feeling a heavy weight of guilt. His body was being forced to shrug off the invasive blastmycosis, but his mind had it's own agenda.

* * *

At the second week, Sam was growing more and more distraught. He alone knew the signs, the most subtle differences in Dean's manner. David tried to calm him, assuring him that his recovery was imminent. San tried to humour him, but he knew otherwise.

After a particularly grim visit, Sam retreated to the gardens outside the hospital. He paced, back and forth, trying to dredge up an answer. Dean was a shadow of the brother he knew and relied on. He was beaten, ground down, and Sam had explored every avenue to reverse the direction in which Dean was sinking, but at the moment he had no bloody idea how to steer a reversal. He finally settled on a hard wooden bench. Day-lilies surrounded him, their bright orange optimism having no effect. He sagged in dejected misery, covering his head with his arms, and giving in to tears. He shuddered, rocking, wracked with emotion, sobbing hard in the silent and lonely garden, until he was wrung out. No answers came in his hour of need. Nobody answered his prayers. Not yet.

* * *

Deliverance can come unexpectedly. Sometimes we see and know it. Other times, it creeps from shadowed corners of our lives, hardly recognizable, but powerful in it's thrust. A few days later, Sam intercepted a call on his brother's phone. He'd been holding it, ever since Dean was in the hospital. It rang unexpectedly-few knew how to contact Dean directly, it was always un-nerving when someone other than one of the brothers or Bobby was calling. But he scrutinized the number, realizing it was foreign to him. For a moment. he thought he'd let it ring on. But he answered it, fearing the voice and its implications, at the other end.

The voice was a soft and musical female tone. "Dean? Dean honey, is that you?"

Sam wracked his brain, she sounded so damned familiar. "No, it's his brother, Sam."

"Oh Sam, I'm so glad you picked up. It's Missouri, you remember me?"

He almost smiled at her question. "Sure, of course, Missouri. Uh, how are you? What can I do for -

She didn't wait for him to finish the banalities. "Where's your brother, is he alright?"

He was shocked silent for a moment. "Why are you asking?"

He could hear her fussing, she made a small gasp of dismay. "Oh Sam, he isn't, is he? Talk to me!"

Her direct questioning caught him off guard. "Missouri, now's not a good time-

"Don't you dare dismiss me, boy!" she rebuked. "I didn't ask for this bother! And I'm not as young as I used to be, I'm seventy four years old, I need my rest! Now you tell me what is happening there!"

Her tone was urgent and strained. He knew she had a sixth sense. She was an enigmatic mystery, a woman with deep connections to their father, and one who possessed strange qualities, and he knew he didn't know the half of them. "He's sick, Missouri. We had a hunt, he got hurt. Why are you calling?"

He could hear her, murmuring, almost arguing with herself. She sounded distracted and confused. He was almost ready to dismiss her as drunk or addled. "I'm sorry, Sam...It's this damned noise! It doesn't give me a moment's peace."

He didn't know what to make of that so he ignored it. He was tense and tired and worried, and his patience was thin. "Missouri, please-what do you want?"

"Well what I want is hardly the question! I need to talk with your brother. Lord, Samuel, I can't begin to tell you about these last few days...I get no rest at all. All I can see is that damned red man, and hear that little tinkling.. "

He didn't need her riddles at that time. "What does this have to do with Dean?"

"Well I don't know. Sam, all I can tell you is that something or someone is anxious on the other side, and it has to do with your brother. I just have to see him. Where are you?"

It had been a hard few days, he was tired and wrung out. He wanted more than anything to dissuade her. "Look, I really think that maybe you should wait, Missouri. He's really not doing so well.."

"Oh dear...oh dear..." she said quietly. Her words trailed off and he couldn't understand the rest.

"I'm sorry? I didn't hear that-" he said.

"Nevermind, honey. But tell me how to find you. It's important, Samuel. I wouldn't be calling after him if it wasn't. You know that well enough, boy."

He knew that was likely true. She had always been a little hard on Dean, he'd seen it himself when they'd met before. He wasn't sure why. He relented and gave her directions. She thanked him then, and again she drifted in the conversation, as if she was trying to deal with other, equally insistent parties, in a sort of conference call. He asked her again to repeat her words.

"Oh, it's so...strange. They wake me, he's so urgent, so...persistent. But I can't get it all, he's just out of reach. Sam, I have to ask you this...is there something there, making a noise...a wind-chime, or..oh I don't know, a music box, or a...a chime clock, ? Anything like that?"

He thought she was losing it. "No. Nothing...why?"

She sighed, and it was heavy with weary confusion. "It's just the sound, it's been vexing me since the start, it never stops. Like little bells..." He waited for more. A moment later, she came back to their conversation. "It doesn't matter. So he's in this number then, at Atlanta General?"

"Uh, yeah, for now."

"Well that's fine. I'll see you shortly." She hung up then, and he was left perplexed.

* * *

He returned to Dean's room. Dean was asleep. David was there, checking all the monitors. The doc looked up.

"We're getting a visitor. " Sam finally said.

David looked at him quizzically, noting Sam's strange tone. "Got any more than that little enigma?!"

Sam paused for a moment. "She's a family friend. Connected to Dad, more than we'll ever know. For some reason, she knows that Dean's sick, and it's affecting her some how."

David squinted at Sam. "Connected..? Like how?"

Sam shrugged. "Missouri is a medium. Dad knew her from way back. She...I dunno-senses things, I'm not sure what that means, exactly. But right now she's got a burr under her saddle, and it involves Dean. She demanded that we let her come out."

David blinked. Every day with the Winchesters was a new and discomfiting eye-opener. "What..?"

Sam almost laughed. "Jesus, David. I'm not God...I don't have any answers. All I know is that a very intense old woman is demanding we include her right now. Her timing sucks, I get that. But she feels something, or she knows it, I don't know. But what I do know is, Dad trusted her sense. If she has something in her head, we should probably accommodate it."

David had long-since learned to accept things he didn't understand. He knew he was a novice, and the Winchesters were well entrenched in these things. And he too, knew that Dean was losing his tether on life. He simply accepted what Sam said. "When will she be here..?"

"Soon. She's bussing it. She'll be here by tomorrow."


	26. Chapter 26

26

The night passed no differently than any had in recent memory. Sam had no choice-he was required to go home at a certain time, when visiting hours ended. David had no such restrictions, and he was wearing himself out with his unwavering vigil. He and Dennis had exchanged tense words over it. Dennis was concerned that David was unable to separate himself and perform in an objective and professional manner. And David in turn told him to shove it somewhere uncomfortable. Both retreated before real damage was done to their working relationship.

David sat by his friend's bedside, long after his exhausting shift was over. He tried as always to engage Dean in light chatter, just keep him talking, keep him participating in the present. It was a struggle, to say the least. Dean was resistant, when he was awake, and those times were few. He slept so long that David had hours of miserable silence to spend. He knew why, of course. Dean was weary of the effort his difficult life demanded. He was retreating to unconsciousness to keep the dragons at bay, but the evidence of his nightmares suggested that they found their way in, regardless. David woke him repeatedly, when he was particularly distraught. He would stare in frightened confusion, until he regained his grip, at which point Dean would shrug off any more of David's efforts with deep embarrassment. David was tired and feeling useless, and he found himself eagerly waiting for morning, when Sam could take over again.

Sam came early again, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. David might have been there in person during the night, but Sam was hardly spending those hours in rest. He lay awake for hours, going over the events from the beginning. And as he lay awake in restless, stifling insomnia, the 'beginning' stretched further and further back, and he found himself hating everything, especially his dad. Misery had been forced on the Winchesters early. But John was an adult. His boys were only children, and a father sucks it up and lives for his kids, no matter what. At least, he should have. It was pointless to go down that road, he knew it. But he couldn't help it. Their fate was hurtful enough, but John Winchester's reaction to it all was the most damaging influence of all.

He came in with coffee cups in hand, passing one to David. David accepted it like an automaton. Sam sat, and they drank the hot fuel in silence. Sam had brought one for Dean, as always. He put it on the night stand, knowing full well that it would grow cold and be cleared away later.

"How was the night?" Sam asked.

"Same." David grunted. He cradled the cup in his hands, hunched over and heavy-lidded.

Sam didn't need any more than that, he knew what David meant by now. He turned to him. "My shift. Get home, David. Your dog is eating the remote by now."

David snorted. "Probably." He looked at his watch, rising. "When is your friend due here?"

"I figure somewhere around three. She said she'd call from the station, I'll pick her up then."

David nodded. He was still on alternate days, so he could go home to sleep without leaving the hospital short. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Give me a head's up, ok? I want to be here."

"I will." Sam promised. David left then, and Sam settled in to his hard, vinyl chair. He watched Dean as his chest rose and fell. At least it did so evenly, without the attendant noises and struggles that had accompanied his breathing before. Whatever poison the drug was, it was damned effective. He reminded himself to be grateful. There could have been many more serious side-effects with the med, but Dean seemed to be weathering it.

* * *

At ten-thirty, he'd depleted his well of patience. He shook Dean gently. "Hey...Dean.."

Dean frowned.

"Come on, wake up. I'm bored, you never know what I might do, Dean..."

Dean ignored him. He shifted, turning away from the irritant that sat there yet again.

Sam swore. He tried another tact. "Dean, you know-I have a black marker. Don't make me draw shit on your face. You know I will-"

Dean opened his eyes. "Try it and you'll be in traction along-side me." he growled.

It was a start. "Dean, turn over and talk to me, please..."

Dean sighed and shifted up to sit. "Hey. Good Morning. Thanks for stopping by. Seeya."

"Shut up. How are you feeling? Hungry yet? Breakfast is here, nice and congealed. I picked the best parts hours ago, hope you don't mind."

Dean shot him a sour look. He turned to the tray, and picked up a piece of cold toast. "No coffee?"

"Yeah, there was coffee. It was awesome, best coffee ever."

Dean almost smiled. "So what will it cost me to get you to fetch me a fresh one..?"

A half-dozen things sprang to Sam's mind. He said none of them. "Just be awake when I get back here. I'm tired of talking to the back of your greasy head, even if the conversation's been deeper than normal."

Dean shrugged. "Fine. It's the most I can do for you, I guess."

Sam muttered something about feeling honoured as he left. He returned after a short while, laden with Dean's favourites. He watched with quiet satisfaction as Dean at least consumed these things with some relish.

He spoke when his own bagel was done. "Dennis ought to be in here soon."

Dean nodded. Dennis was in first thing every morning. He had nothing to add to that.

Sam pried further. "How are you feeling? Any better this morning.?"

Dean shrugged with disinterest. "I can breathe."

"Good." Sam wanted more though. "You must be missing the Impala by now...maybe you could go with me for a run, if David and Dennis let you."

Dean said nothing. He had pushed away his remaining breakfast with disinterest. "Maybe later."

It should have been the thing that brightened him. "C'mon Dean, I don't know anything about the damned car! It sounds rough when I start it, I think it needs attention..."

Dean looked away. "So go check it out. You know how by now."

"No, Dean. I don't...not enough anyway. It needs you."

Dean's expression was bitter for a second. "No it doesn't. Nothing does."

"Dean, come on, I really think-"

"I'm tired, Sam. Give the cheesy psychology a rest, ok? The Impala's not gonna fall apart today. It doesn't need me. It's just a damned car."

Sam fell silent, stripped of his meager arsenal. He sighed as Dean turned over and closed his eyes, shutting the world out again. He didn't argue. Dennis would be by soon, with his clinical questioning, so Dean couldn't retreat to slumber anyway. He tipped the last dregs of cold coffee into his mouth, swallowing the bitter grit. Maybe it would be different today. She was coming, and she had something driving her-something that involved Dean. he shut his eyes, hoping fervently that she held something in her hand that would change the course of this losing game. He retreated himself into silence, as he heard drift off. Well, He was used to Dean shrugging his efforts off by now. But this afternoon, he was in for a sharp surprise. She was no push-over. Slight, older, and soft-spoken, her demeanor hid a backbone of iron, and a razor tongue.

* * *

Sam fidgeted. Dennis had come and gone, satisfied from a professional standpoint that things were progressing within reasonable expectations. Hours had passed, he'd read every paper he could find, and had resorted to various women's magazines. He'd learned things from them that he probably shouldn't know. He was nervous. He knew she would call any moment. Missouri Mosely. A strange figure, enigmatic, mysterious... She was connected to their father, and possessing gifts that even she didn't fully understand. And now she was linked to them-or more specifically-to Dean. He didn't know if it was a good thing, but he chose to believe it was. He played distractedly with whatever it was in his pocket. When he realized that it's shape was foreign to his touch, he pulled it out. A gold mass, circular links, fused to a well-worn old coin. It was Johan's necklace. He stared at it, and then tossed it with disgust onto the table beside Dean's bedside. Sonofabitch! He thought bitterly. -You brought this down on all of us, I hope you're frying to fucking crisp right now!-

When her call finally came, he was outside, taking a break from his watch. He told her he would be there shortly, to collect her from the bus station. Then he went back up to let Dean know.

Dean was sleeping, as usual. He debated the merits of warning him, but decided it was pointless. He wrote a quick note and left it at the bedside, then left to pick up Missouri.

* * *

He pulled into the parking lot, and saw her. She was standing outside the station on the sidewalk, arms crossed and looking impatient. He pulled up to where she stood and hopped out to open the door.

"Lord, Samuel, what on earth took you so long?" She grumbled, settling into the passenger seat. He got back in, and apologized. "Sorry, Missouri, it's not my city, and I got a little lost."

She smiled at him, forgiving him. "Oh I understand. Poor thing." She checked again to make sure she had all her things, and satisfied, she turned to him. "Tell me what's been happening, Sam. How is your brother..?"

Sam knew she wasn't asking to be courteous-she wanted specifics. He gave them to her, in a concise description of the past weeks. She nodded sadly at the end.

"I see. Sounds like Dean has landed himself in a stew now. So his sickness, at least the physical, is mending?"

"Looks like it. He sounds alot better than earlier. His fever is dropping, and he's eating. It's just.."

"He can't let it go, can he?"

"That's it exactly. He can't. He blames himself for so many things, and on top of it, he feels like he's nothing now, because Dad, despite his absolute and brutal certainty that he knew it all, was wrong. At least in the case of these vampires. And it drove it home to Dean that maybe the whole foundation of what he is and does is on shaky ground. And Iris, god- he killed her brother, and she was a wreck because of it. You know how he feels about family-he couldn't imagine something happening to me, it would rob him of everything... Doesn't matter what she did to him, he's sure it wasn't enough. And nothing I say makes a damned difference, Missouri. He's shut me out."

She shook her head, her eyes shiny with emotion. "Your father... Oh, such a mess, that man. Dean is exactly like him, carrying his heart out there like a battle pennant. John never let any of it go. And look where that got him." She frowned, thinking. "Your brother is going to let this take him. I think that's why the red man is trying so hard. I believe he wants to stop him from doing so. But it's so garbled, so urgent, but so unclear. And the damned sound that comes with his contact...it just confuses it all."

Sam thought about her words. Red man. "Missouri, your red man, is his hair sort of wavy, shoulder length?"

"Yes, yes it is. Orange, really. Ginger."

"Bearded?"

She thought about it, closing her eyes and concentrating. "Yes...a beard, very light, like a young man's. And freckles! I'm sure he has freckles!"

Sam sighed. Paul...it had to be. "Missouri, does the name 'Paul" mean anything?"

She said the name out loud, feeling the shape of it on her tongue and in her mind. "No...no, it doesn't. Something else...Lynne- no that's wrong... Finn! Yes, that's what he said!"

Sam didn't know what to make of that. The descriptions matched Paul perfectly. But the name was a mystery. His thoughts were interrupted by her curse.

"Damnation!" she growled, covering her ears.

"What is it?" he asked in alarm.

"These bloody sounds! I'm sorry for my rude language, Sam, but I swear, it is going to drive me to an early grave! Whenever I try to think on any of this, it comes up like a crescendo, and half the time I can't hear the living or the dead for it!" She turned away, mumbling angrily. Sam let her be, and they drove on in relative silence until they reached the hospital.

* * *

David was there again. He should have been at home, catching up on his sleep, but it had been elusive. Sam and Missouri came in quietly, closing the door behind them. Sam forgot to do the introductions. He saw that Dean was stirring, and he glanced at David, who nodded.

"Dean..?"

Dean rubbed his eyes and offered a lack-luster wave before rolling over.

Sam shook him gently. "Hey- Someone's here to see you..."

Dean swore softly, frowning. "Aw man... Not now... Tell them to go away."

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed. "Sorry, dude...can't do that. Trust me, I did try."

Dean turned over reluctantly, and sighed. "So who is it now? The goddamned Pope?"

Sam had no chance to answer. Missouri stepped forward, and she crossed her arms. "Now don't you blaspheme, boy. I know your mother taught you better."

Dean blinked at her where she stood in the doorway. He groaned then. "Great. My biggest fan."

Missouri ignored his sour tone. She came in further, and stood at his bedside, assessing him and clucking in consternation. "Dean Winchester, you look like a dog's breakfast!"

He closed his eyes and whispered, "Thanks. Same to you."

She might have smacked him then, you could never tell. But she snorted instead. "Well, I oughta. I earned it, Lord knows. Ain't got an hour's sleep since he started his bothering me. I blame you, by the way."

Dean snorted in turn. "Christ, who doesn't. Sorry, for whatever the hell you're talking about."

Missouri waved at a spare seat, and Sam quickly brought it to her. She sat down heavily, stiff from the long bus trek. She realized then that she was confusing them unnecessarily. "Right. You all don't know these things yet. Well, listen closely now, cuz I'm a tired old woman without a whit of patience left." She turned to Sam. "Samuel, honey-please go fetch me some tea. I'm as dry as dust, I swear. I'll tell you why I'm here when you're back."

Sam scurried to do what she asked. Missouri turned to David, where he stood uncertainly. "And who are you, dear?" she asked with quiet authority.

"I'm..my name's David...David Bowman. I'm a friend of these boys." He didn't know what else to say, and he shifted nervously under her piercing glare. She softened then, her eyes grew warm, her expression gentled. She extended her hand.

"I am Missouri...Missouri Mosely. I guess I should tell you that I know this family quite well."

David took her hand. It was small, warm. He felt a strange energy from her touch, and it alarmed him. She witnessed his reaction, and chuckled. "Oh now don't fret. I just have a little bit of something different in me. You never learned nothing about it in your med. school, I'm sure." She let go, and her eyes stayed sly. "I see you're a healer. You got the uniform. Well, I'm a healer too. At least when folks will let go and let me."

All David could do was stare at her stupidly. "You're...a doctor?"

She laughed heartily. "Oh Lord, no. Least not the way you think of. Heavens, I'd be in a much finer house today if it were so."

Dean interjected sourly. "She's a freak, David-just like the rest of us in Winchesterville. She sees things that nobody should have a right to see, and she hears secrets that should have stayed that way."

Missouri glowered at him, and dismissed his words. "Oh pay no mind to him, David. That one has no manners at all." She looked up as Sam returned with his tray. "Now this one- He's a charm. Knows how to speak to his elders." She winked at Sam and thanked him for the tea. He sat down, awkward and nervous.

Missouri sipped at her cup, relishing its comforts. After a time, she addressed the ring of anxious faces. "You all want to know why I came here, don't you?"

She waited for their nods, then continued. Her demeanour grew grim. She put down the cup, and her gaze seemed to drift to someplace far away. "Well, he's asked me to come. He whispers to me, hour upon hour, day and night. He says 'Talk to him", he says I need to make you listen, and understand some things."

They said nothing, waiting for her to continue. So she did.

"I call him the Red Man. I don't know who he is, or what this is all about. But I do know that he keeps me wakeful with his urgings. His voice...it sounds like music, kind-of. It has a cadence, like nothing I ever heard before." She sipped again at the tea, her eyes far away. Again she continued. "He says his name is Finn."

They looked at each other. None of them knew that name.

"Finn is his given name. He's so pleased to use it again. Says he missed it."

Again they were perplexed. Dean was tired. He had very little patience. "Missouri-none of us knows what the hell you're talking about. We don't know any 'Finn' -never did."

She shook him off with irritation. "Be quiet, for heaven's sakes! I have more!"

Angry, but duly admonished, Dean fell silent, and she continued.

"As I was saying, he calls himself Finn. But he says...wait now-" She shut her eyes, and her lips moved silently. "He says you know him by the name he took along with his vows. Paul...Yes, it was Paul!"

That brought them to full attention. Dean sat as straight as he could manage, his gaze intense. "Paul?"

She nodded. "Yes. Just as Sam thought! The red man, -red hair, red whiskers. Pale as flour. Oh Lord, boys-this one has so many things he needs to say!"

David listened, rapt. Paul...she knew of Paul. Sam was equally speechless.

Even Dean was brought to a level of disquiet that kept his mouth closed. But his was the first to open. "What, Missouri? What is he trying to say here?!"

She stared at him, then shook her head. "I...I need more. He is trying so hard to come through, but sometimes there has to be something to connect, a bridge, a key. He talks, but I don't understand the half of it!" Her eyes welled then. "I'm trying to help you all. But I just need..more!"

Dean swore and turned away. Missouri saw it and her face fell. "I'm sorry...I truly am. I need him to speak to you all as much as he needs it. It's just so tiring.." She slumped, and turned away from them, perplexed and unhappy. She reached for her tea, and saw the fused gold chain. She picked it up, and the moment it was in her hand, she went rigid, her eyes wide, mouth dropping open slightly. "Oh-" she said. A flurry of images flew through her mind, Johan, his deeds, his life, Paul, Iris, and then Dean, tied on the ground, in the mill, crying out as they burned him repeatedly-

They snapped to attention at her tone. It was mere seconds. For a moment they thought she was having a coronary, but she managed to throw ithe object away, and when she did, her face crumpled in tears. Both Sam and David shot to their feet to attend her but she shrugged them off. "No-no, I'm alright," she sniffled. She turned to Dean, her expression raw. She took in his thin form, his pallor, and his dark-circled eyes. "Oh, you poor, poor dear-" she said, almost imperceptably. She reached out to touch his hand, but suddenly she covered her ears "No! Oh for heaven's sake- stop this!"

Sam was already standing. "What is it?" he demanded.

She shook her head, trying to cast off the overpowering sound. "It's the bells-the tinkling-I can't hear!"

Sam had witnessed the effect of Johan's jewellery on her senses. Bells, tinkling- A thought struck him like thunder. He remembered a sound, one that could be described exactly as that which vexed her now. -Silver- The line at a fast food place, a girl ahead, her bracelet sounded like-

He bolted from the room, leaving the others staring after him.

"I'm sorry-" Missouri said. "I just can't shed this. I don't know what it is, or what it means. All I know is that it's so very -" She didn't finish. She shut here eyes and shook her head. "It's a part of this. More than I can understand right now." She sat, tired, and unhappy, nursing a burgeoning headache brought on by the insistent and pervasive noise that none of the others could hear.

Sam had rushed to where the Impala was parked. He fumbled with the keys, opening the door and clawing the glove box open. He rooted through it, pushing aside papers and cassettes, and weapons, until his fingers found what he sought. He gripped the thing, and exited the car, locking and slamming the door shut. He sprinted back to the building, to Dean's room, as fast as if the devil himself was chasing him. When he burst back into the quiet room, the occupants stared at him as if he'd lost his senses.

"Missouri!" he shouted.

She whipped her head around. "Samuel?"

He didn't waste his time on speech. Instead, he tossed the charm bracelet-Iris's bracelet- into her hand. She caught it, and the moment it touched her palm, she gasped.

She reached out wildly with her other hand, and found Dean's wrist, grasping it in a tight grip. The contact had an instant effect, he arched against his sheets and made a strange sound, as his own eyes flew open, before fluttering and rolling up and closing. The two were tied in a tense and breathless spasm, and neither Sam nor David knew what to do.

Sam, wild-eyed with fear, turned to David, "What is this?! David, help me-!"

David was shocked and at a loss. Neither Dean nor the woman appeared to be breathing. Both were rigid and entranced. It was beyond his education, but he'd learned a long time ago that there was alot that was outside his limited learning.. "Wait-I don't know, Sam-just...wait-"


	27. Chapter 27

27

"What the hell now-?"

A dizzying whirl of motion had hit him like a wall, and as abruptly as it began, it stopped. Dean stared around at the place where he suddenly found himself. He stood, alone. The surf was gently lapping, sparkling with evening sun. It played at his feet and retreated, leaving the soft sand darkened with moisture. Shells, and pebbles, and bits of flotsam tumbled with the water's moods.

"I'm on the shore..." he thought, obviously. "The sea.."

He turned in confused wonder to scan up the beach. It seemed to stretch for miles, a perfect, sparkling strip between the fresh, green shrubbery and gentle water. It was empty, except for a pair of adirondack chairs, sitting some distance away in the froth of the surf. One appeared to be occupied. He was at a loss as to where to go or what to do, so he walked toward them.

When he reached them, he recognized the seated figure. A tall man, red-haired, sat back, eyes closed, soaking in the sunshine. He sat up, squinting, as Dean approached him.

"Hello Dean Winchester." he smiled.

Dean assessed him warily. He knew the man. Once... "Paul..?"

Paul shook his head. "Not any more...that was the name I took with my vows, a long time ago. My mother named me Fionn."

"Finn...?" Dean repeated with a questioning tone.

"Yes. My birth name. It means 'fair-headed'. My grandfather's name, and his father's before .."

Dean was still confused, and ill-at-ease. He had no idea how he came to be where he was, or more importantly, why. "You used to go by Paul, how come you changed back now?"

"Because I'm not a priest here."

Dean stared around, at the pleasant surroundings, at the man who stood there. "Well what are you then..?"

Paul laughed. "Hard to define. But I'm not bound any more, to vows I made in my living days. I'm free...happy, in a way I can't begin to describe... I have choices here, and I choose to be Finn once more.." He turned and stared out over the water. A sailboat was coming closer. A small boat, twenty-two, maybe twenty-three feet, broad-beamed but steady. Its gleaming navy hull sliced the water, sending up veils of sparkling spray, a set of brilliant white sails snapping full to the breeze. He got to his feet, and waved at it. Two people waved back, shouting greetings.

Dean followed his gaze. "Who are they..?"

Paul smiled. "Come now, you can't guess?"

The realization struck Dean like a blow. A sailboat...blue sky, bright water. "Iris.. It's Iris, and..."

"Yes. Iris and Conrad."

Dean sank in his chair, his expression was of shock and dismay.

Paul saw it. "We are all here, Dean. Iris is reunited now, with her brother. But more than that, she is here, with me..." Paul said softly. "You understand? Now nothing stands between us, no vows, or curses or misery. Or guilt... "

Dean realized what he was saying. "You... and Iris?!"

Paul turned to him and winked, grinning widely. "So you see why I am done with the priesthood."

Dean blinked, and nodded. "Sure...I get that. Are they...are they coming here?" He was suddenly nervous, it was so easy, so peaceful at the moment. He feared that when they saw him it would be all ruined for them.

"No. They see only me. Conrad is happily teaching her to sail, and she is happily pretending to be hopeless. They don't know I am speaking with you now."

"..Oh." Dean's tone was pained. "Sure...I get that, they would hate it, my intrusion in this place.."

Paul sighed, exasperated. "No, that's not it at all. They simply are not a part of this conversation. I alone brought you in. It was difficult too, let me tell you. But I couldn't sit by and watch you strangle yourself with guilt when none of it is warranted."

Dean's throat tightened, and he looked away, watching the boat for some time. "How can you say that..?" he finally managed. "All of it was my fault... Conrad, Iris.. Hell, I couldn't even come through for you, when you needed me at the end! Instead I forced a friend to perform a bloody horror that he'll probably never get over. Everywhere I go, I poison things. A hunter...what the hell gave me the right? My life has been a deluded waste, and everybody but me pays for it."

Paul watched him with sadness. He shook his head, frowning. "Well that was bitter. Do you really believe that? What about Johan? Do you think killing him was a waste? An injustice? Well, I beg to differ. I saw what you suffered at his hands, and trust me, he did far, far worse. You did right by him, he got exactly what he earned. And all the other evil creatures that preyed on the living, in an orgy of malice and cruelty and blood, murdering, brutalizing, tearing families apart? Was that a waste of effort as well? Do you regret stopping them?"

Dean slumped in his chair. "No, well...I don't think so, I mean-not all of them.."

"And which of them would you have spared then..?"

His answer was instant. "Conrad, for starters."

Paul's eyes softened. "Yes, Conrad. A mistake, one that you regret, clearly. But of any others, Dean...which would you do differently if you had the chance?"

It took Dean a few moments. "I don't know.. I've hunted all my adult life, there's a lot of them."

"Try anyway."

Dean thought about it, and finally, he answered as truthfully as he could. "None of them really...I guess."

"None of them. And all the tortured spirits you have liberated through your own efforts, costing you pain and blood, -the confused and angry souls sent on their proper journey at last, the demons cast out of terrified hosts, how many of those hunts were mistakes?"

Again, Dean was forced to admit that he would have done the same in every case.

Paul almost smiled. "I see. To sum up then, no prior hunt was folly. None were mistakes, but one, -and if I may be so forward as to point it out-you have not, despite your own laments, wasted your efforts. So I have to ask then...why all this self-recrimination? Why do you punish yourself now, so much so that your brother and your friends watch helplessly as you give up and waste away to nothing?"

Dean stared down at his hands. He clasped them together, and was silent. He sighed bitterly. "Isn't it enough that those two out there are dead, and they died hard, ugly deaths because of me? What else does there have to be..?"

Paul watched him, then cast his glance to the boat. "Do they look unhappy to you?"

Dean could hear their laughter echoing across the water. "Not really...no. But-"

"Let me cut you off right there. Dean. Yes- neither you nor I can deny that Conrad died brutally, and afterward, Iris lived in misery until she too was killed. But let me tell you plainly from one with the perspective of having lived that nightmare, -that no matter how they died, it gave them a blessed end to their torture. It was relief, Dean, pure and beautiful relief. Conrad hated what he'd become, as I did. Neither of us chose to become vampires, but ultimately we couldn't fight our nature. And both of us suffered in flaming agony every damned night, desperate to deny our unnatural thirst. Conrad and the others tried so hard to exist solely on animal blood, but the pull of evil was so strong, they were failing, one by one. And I took the route of choosing only the worst of society to feed on. It was a thin moral line, and wasn't much better than what the rest of them do, and I think I am damned lucky to be on this side of the fire, rather than roasting for eternity in it."

He shook his head, thinking of those days. "You know, I prayed for death, every night, every dawn, as the sun began to rise and shine light on what I was. But I was too much of a coward to do it myself. And my religion had taught me...I thought that if I wasn't damned already, my suicide would guarantee it. So I am telling you, Dean, that regardless of the circumstances, you did what was right."

...Right... Dean snorted at the word. "Well Paul, I don't know what's 'right' anymore. Maybe you should pick a different word."

"Oh, you do. Yes, you do. Your constant self-flagellation is ample proof. You lie now, back there in your bed, weakening, dying, in a state that is almost entirely self-imposed. But Dean. I've proven to you that you wouldn't have changed the way you did most things. And I know you were driving yourself to destruction over Conrad and Iris, and me. Well here I am, standing with you on the shores of heaven itself, assuring you, that even though no forgiveness is necessary, you would have it from all of us, without question."

Dean felt moisture rise to his eyes, he covered them with a hand, turning away.

Paul's voice softened again as he continued, nodding his head toward the two on the boat. "Watch them, Dean. Hear them. Your actions, no matter how harsh they seem to you, -they sent them here, to heaven. You delivered them from their own unfair and undeserving hell. And memory will show that I forced you, and your David, to do the same for me. There is nothing to regret here. What more do you need to convince you? I say it plainly, once again, you owe us nothing, and you have our deepest gratitude."

Dean stared hard at Paul. Paul returned his gaze, with a look of such utter and benevolent peace that Dean had to believe him. His throat tight with emotion, Dean whispered a quiet thank-you.

Paul's face lit up, and revealed his relief. "Well bloody finally! I was running out of poetry, for heaven's sake!"

But he saw that his friend remained in his state of turmoil. "There is more to this, isn't there..?"

With Paul's assurance of forgiveness, and his gentle questioning, Dean was able to voice the rest. He nodded wearily. "Yeah, there's always more. The thing is; I grew up in a lousy, crappy childhood. My mother died at a demon's hands, and it made my father a driven, obsessive hunter. We moved around, we never had friends or family, or anything near a 'home'. But my Dad was always the shining hero in the middle of it. He told me what to do, what to think, and what to believe. Black and white, nothing else. It was the only thing that kept my head from exploding-the thought that all that crap didn't matter, because Dad was right, and what we did was right. I never knew there were other possibilities. I never realized...

And then Lenore's band turns up. Good vampires, Christ, what am I supposed to do with that?! And then you... looking out for Iris, even saving me from Johan. So now, I have to wonder, how many other Conrads were out there that I killed? What else did Dad tell me, crap that I sucked up like a sponge, that I believed was canon and iron truth, that was really just self-serving bullshit? I mean, how the hell can I keep doing this now, and where am I supposed to go from here?!"

Paul sat back. "Ah."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, 'Ah". There it is. I can't hunt, knowing these things... and it's not like I can go and be a freaking gardener or something for the rest of my life. Even if I could, there are enough things out there that might want to have a word with me now, over some of the shit I've done."

Paul understood about difficult fathers. He'd run away to the priesthood to escape his own. "Dean, please, you must listen to me. What ever issues you have with your father, however deep-rooted and painful, you must know that you are not only a product of his influence alone. I never knew him, but I do know you. I know you are devoted and courageous, as well as kind and principled. You are not the Son-of-John to me. You are Dean Winchester, a difficult, complicated bastard, but a good man. No one holds up perfectly to the harsh light of scrutiny, believe me; no man, no woman, no priest, no saint, even the Irish ones. And nothing will ever be carved in stone in the end so that we can reflect on it after and say unequivocably, 'Yes, that was Good', or 'No-that was Wrong'. Every situation is new, and has its own boundaries, its own particular morality. No brush can paint it all in any one colour. History is proof of that. Your father was a strong man, and he tried under terrible circumstances to find a way to cope with terrible new realities, to find his equilibrium in this place. You are the same. He made mistakes, you have as well. Who hasn't? The difference is whether or not you take that knowledge and use it to shape your future actions. Ignore your past, for now. It shapes you but it does not define you. Remember what you were told, but concentrate on what you know now. Your father was a sum of his own experiences. And so are you. So go on and hunt the evils in the world, Dean; it is your vocation, and no one else will if you don't. Go forward with a new caution that sometimes there may be other truths, or other sides. But go on with your work. Without you, all of us; me, -those two on that boat- we would be bound for hell. And a thousand innocent people would have died in our wake."

Paul was eloquent. His words found their mark. Dean's tears ran freely now. He wiped them away with embarrassment, and nodded in silence.

Paul understood. He stood up, leaving Dean to spend his emotions alone. He walked to the boat, which the two were now pulling on to the beach, and joined them in their efforts. Once the boat was grounded on the sand, he left his happy friends and returned to where Dean sat. He reached a hand out, squeezing his shoulder in support.

Dean was spent, and he leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. "Thanks." he said almost too quietly to hear. "For this...and for what you said.."

Paul sat down on the sand beside him. "Well I had to do something. If I left you to your own devices you'd be dead in a week, and your poor brother and friends would be beside themselves with grief. I couldn't let that happen."

Dean felt shame at that. "Yeah...I guess I was a little far up my own ass."

Paul snorted. "God yeah, it took a hell of a pull!" He laughed then, but he sobered. "But in all seriousness, you will be going back shortly. They've done all they can to heal you. You must not let them down now. I know you are battered and ill, but it's time for you to shrug it off and move forward. You owe it to them. And you owe it to me, because this little chat, here in this place, took some costly effort on my part. And don't ask me what favours I've called in, because it is none of your damned business." His sly smile had returned.

Dean got the message. -Don't ask about things you were better-off not knowing.- He drew in a deep breath, to clear his head. "Well, thanks, Paul, or Finn, or whoever the hell you are. I guess I needed a kick in the head."

Paul looked at him with an expression that defied description. "No..." he answered softly. "I think you've had enough of those. You just needed to see."

He stood again, and Dean did too. "You really should be going now. Your friends are in a panic, sure that you are nearly gone."

"Gone..?"

"Yes. There was only one way you could meet me here. You had to be at the doorstep, so to speak, otherwise we couldn't bridge the gap. But it's not your time to stay. Go back, Dean. You have a new awareness, and it is painful, but good. Keep doing what you do. Liberate those who need it, and send the rest to hell where they belong. Good-bye, Dean Winchester. Keep well." Paul turned from him, and he strode back toward the boat.

As Dean watched, Paul met his friends. He caught Iris up in his arms, lifting her up, spinning barefoot in the sand. She pretended to resist, but he kissed her, and she laughed, and returned it with ardour, as Conrad smiled and worked to drop the sails. The scene began to fade, like morning mist burning off with the sun. The chairs, the sand, the water, all blended and began to flow away like quicksilver. Colours and shapes lost definition, and Dean felt himself begin to spin. The feeling grew, and became so uncomfortable that he caught his breath, closed his eyes and let go.


	28. Chapter 28

28

"David, for christ's sake!" Alarmed at what was happening, Sam had leapt to his feet. The monitors that read Dean's condition were screaming now. He was flat-lining, and beginning to turn blue. David was already in motion, and Dennis had skidded into the room at the alert. Missouri was stiff as a corpse, wide-eyed and open-mouthed-her small hand gripping Dean's wrist so hard that her nails were digging in. Sam leapt at her and tore her hand away, and the moment he did, she looked at him in utter shock before her eyes rolled up and she fainted dead away.

Dean's own eyes flew open and he gasped, heaving in air desperately. His return to conciousness was met by sheer chaos, there was a panic of activity over him, blinding lights, shouting, scurrying, tense faces flashing in and out of view. Sounds were blurred and strange, his skin prickled with an odd coldness. He tried to speak but only croaked. As sensation flooded back to his body, he felt hands on him, rough and insistent, and when he could focus he saw a pair of defibrilators, poised to shock his failing heart back to rhythm.

"Whoa whoa whoa!" he choked out, struggling against the hold, and twisting away. Strangers gripped him and pinned him to the bed, and he squirmed against their hold.

"Keep him still!" someone barked.

But he bucked against them, swearing. "No! Leave me alone, jesus, I'm ok! I'm not tanking! Stop it!"

His resistance was convincing, it was strong, hardly the reaction of a dying man. As soon as the medical staff ascertained that he was indeed back, the paddles disappeared from his view, and they covered his face with an oxygen mask before he could protest further. Confused and dizzy, he had no choice but to let them do their thing.. A few more minutes of what seemed like panic passed, and the tension broke in the room. The machines told the rest of the story, the levels and lights proving that the danger had truly passed. Dean searched around wildly, still strangely disconnected and trying to make sense of what was happening. He gulped the oxygen hungrily, starved for it thanks to his fleeting brush with the afterlife. His blurred eyes took in the room, with all the people hovering. Sam, and David... Dennis, and others who were strangers. He saw Missouri, coming-to from her faint, her waving hands impatiently brushing away the attentions of the nurses.

He pulled away the mask. "What the hell?!" he demanded. His voice was so husky and slight that it surprised even him. "I was sleeping!"

Sam looked to be near tears. "No dude, sleeping was hardly what was happening. You were flat-lining, you understand? Dean, you were checking out!"

Dean stared at him in a stupor. "What..?"

David stepped in. "Welcome back, you squirrelly sonofabitch! You had us all crapping ourselves, and thank-you very much!" His smile was shaky, slightly unhinged, as if he'd just sped through hell naked on a harley and come out unscathed on the other side.

"Flat-lining... What, like..?"

"Yeah! End game, Dean! And with no will to prove all the good stuff goes to me!" Sam added, fooling no one with his tone.

Dean waved off the attentions of the staff that hovered near. "Jesus! Well...shit, sorry... I was just talking to-" He paused in confusion. He glanced then at Missouri, who had settled herself back into a chair, fanning herself with a fluttering hand. "I was talking to-"

"To Paul. Or Fionn, as he wants now." she finished for him.

Dean stared around at his current reality. His surroundings were so different from where he'd been a few moments ago. "Yeah...Finn. And he said.." He stopped then. Paul's words were deeply personal. He did not feel comfortable sharing here and now. " uh... Nothing...nevermind."

Missouri met his eyes and offered a wan smile. She looked haggard, and worn out. Dean realized the effect it had on her, and he asked in sudden concern, "You ok, Missouri? This thing, with Paul, and me... It wasn't what you signed on for, I'm sure."

Her eyes were soft, but masked nonetheless. She shrugged him off. "Oh. Don't you worry, sweetheart. I'm fine. Your friend may have chosen me to be his conduit, but I always know what I'm wandering into. I let it happen, you know. I can choose who to hear, I could have shut this out. And I know the other side has a certain... effect. But nothing I ain't experienced before." She leaned closer then, whispering so softly that he barely heard her words. "Did you hear him? Your friend, did his words reach you..?"

He nodded slightly, and she smiled in relief. She reached out and squeezed his hand, tears filming her eyes. "Well...I am so glad I could help you all." she said, fighting to keep her composure. "It don't always work so well. The others, they're usually angry, they don't often have such fine things to say."

Sam and David, still in the dark, exchanged glances. Sam knew that something significant had transpired. He could already see a change in Dean's eyes. A spark had returned, a flash of life that hinted at some sort of resolution. Now that it was over, Sam was sure that the terrifying moments of Dean's lifelessness were deliberately orchestrated somehow, and profoundly important. He guessed that through Missouri, the veil had been pierced, and Dean had seen the other side.

Still frazzled, Dennis broke the spell. "Well, I'm glad you all feel such warm and fuzzy relief, but allow me to have a little professional concern here!" He was seated beside Dean where he lay, still monitoring the machinery. "You just flat-lined, Winchester! And with no reason, as far as I can tell! You were doing better, damn-it! We had this thing finally under control!"

Missouri stood then. She reached out and took hold of Dennis's elbow, and patted his hand. "Sweetheart, come with me. You look like a man who needs a little education." She glanced back at Dean, his brother and best friend in close attendance. "Are you alright then, boy..? Can we leave you?"

He nodded.

"Well good. Excuse us for a moment." She steered Dennis out into the hall, leaving the rest of them alone.

Dean swallowed drily. He closed his eyes, feeling a wave of faintness. It left him trembling after his experience. David pressed the oxygen mask back over his face, and he accepted it wearily. He knew both of them wanted to hear his version of what had transpired in the short period of time that had nearly cost him his life. But he wasn't ready, by any means, to discuss it.

Sam was still tense and hovering. "Dean...are you ok? I mean really? You nearly checked out there, -christ, I thought ...I mean I was sure that you-" He stopped speaking. It was pointless now anyway, it seemed that Dean was all right.

Dean met his brother's eyes. "Sammy, I'm real sorry I scared you there. I didn't know... I was on this beach, it was so weird... I didn't know what the hell was going on at first. But it was good, actually.. I saw people.. I talked to Paul, on the other side. It was pretty freaky, but he set me straight on a few things. But I'm so damned tired now... I'll tell you about all of this later, but for now, I just have to..." His eyes were heavy, and Sam could see the effort it took him to keep going. He turned to David.

"David? Is he ok to sleep now?"

David nodded. He knew that every monitor was reading within acceptable levels again. And he too knew that some element had changed. Dean had seen something, or heard something, that seemed to make a difference. He spoke briefly to the attending nurses, and then turned to the brothers. "I think maybe that's a good idea." He turned to Dean, "Glad you decided to stay around, Winchester. Excuse me while I go puke and pass out for a few hours."

Dean didn't let him go. He reached out a hand and grasped David's. "Thanks, David," he said quietly. "..for everything."

David squeezed back. "Don't you ever do that to me again!" he growled. He had to go then, his emotions welling and threatening to expose his soft core. He left without further word.

* * *

It was truly remarkable. Dean rallied after the episode. He was already on the mend due to the efforts of his friends, but whatever had been the barrier to his healing was lifted now. He began to bounce back like he used to, in the past. Within a week, Dennis felt comfortable discharging him, as long as David agreed to keep watch over him until he was satisfied. He was settled back in to the guest room at David's, and he behaved himself. As a matter fact, he was so uncharacteristically easy that Sam found yet another reason to worry. He'd talked to David about it, and he took Dean to task over it now.

"Dean...are you sure everything is ok with you?"

Dean sighed patiently. It wasn't the first time that day that Sam had voiced his concern. "Yeah, Sam. No nightmares.. sleeping like a baby, I'm eating like horse, and I'm back to my regular, unhealthy level of alcoholism. My pants fit like I have no ass, but it's all good, ok? So quit worrying, already."

Sam frowned at his reassurances. "Good..." he murmured, unconvinced.

Dean knew the look. He sighed. "What now..?"

"It's just.. Dean...you're so damned laid-back now, after everything you've suffered through. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're dealing with it all so well. But it's such a total one-eighty from just a short time ago. It's like you're... I don't know, like you should be wearing a saffron robe and holding a flower. After all this happened, after watching you sink so deep, it's just weird for me."

Dean cocked his head. The two were sitting out back, in the cool evening. They were nursing beers, waiting for David to finish his shift. "I'm not normally this laid-back?"

Sam wasn't sure what he wanted to say, or what he wanted to hear. It had been a long, hard haul. "Well, you have been known to be a little... tightly wound. I'm not complaining or anything...it's great to see you relax, just that it's not really your style. I'm glad you found some peace after everything, but..."

"But what?"

"Shit, Dean! I don't know. I guess I'm still paranoid, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I just want to know that this is really over, in a way. I'm worried that the way you're reacting now is kind of a temporary high, and I'm afraid of the crash. I mean, you went through the wringer big time. We all did. It was a hard, complicated hunt, one that we didn't even choose, and it had a long time of recovery. I guess I just need to know that this really is done now."

Dean snorted softly. Done. It was never done. But he knew what Sam meant. He drew a deep swallow from his bottle, and put it aside. He clasped his hands together, and turned to his brother. "Sam, I swear to you and anything else listening, that I am fine. I'm better than I've been for a long time, really. And here's why, ok?"

Sam leaned forward, wanting desperately to be reassured after everything he'd gone through with Dean.

Dean hated when Sam was so intense. But he knew that he'd been the cause of it. He was silent for a long while, before he spoke. The crickets in the lawn were starting up. The air was still and quiet, the stars beginning to brighten as the blue of the sky faded toward darkness. He thought about his words, measuring them with deliberate care. "Ok. Listen up, Sam.. I get that you're worried. And there is no denying that this whole thing from beginning to end was a cluster-fuck. It threw me a curve, and it was way bigger than even I knew. All sorts of shit was wrapped up in this...Dad, and what he taught us, Lenore and her band, the concept that maybe there is middle ground between us and what we hunt, that maybe it isn't all black and white, and that I might have killed when it wasn't deserved. And Iris, jesus. It brought in the whole brother thing, Sam. I killed hers, and it nearly destroyed her. I sure as hell wouldn't have let it ride, if something ever happened to you. So I couldn't blame her, no matter what she did to me. I'd have done exactly what she did, you know. I would've hunted down anyone who hurt you until I was satisfied, consequences be damned. And then there was Paul. Christ, he showed me new sides to things that I didn't even want to think about. A reluctant vampire, denying the evil inside him, beating it down, in love with a human girl, looking out for her anyway even though he knew she was out of reach. He could have turned her, and the three of them could have embraced their nature and lived like kings, but he wouldn't do that. A monk, for christs sake...he had more god-given morality than I'll ever have, and he never lost an ounce of it even after the change. Huge concepts, Sam; way more than I was ready to deal with." He sighed and stared at his hands. "In the end, Iris died, not because she had a vendetta, but because she let go of her hate. And Paul, well it took guts for him to force his own death. I just couldn't do it when it was time, thank god David stepped up. The whole scenario was so crappy at the time, just bloody and sad and ugly. But then I saw him, on his peaceful beach, surrounded by his friends, basking in the sun that he'd been denied for so long, finally able to love his girl, ...well, he set it straight for me. He said alot, but bottom line was he was actually thanking me for bringing them all together there. He was thanking me for killing them. It cut me loose, Sam. The guilt that was choking me...jesus, I couldn't take it anymore. But Paul told me that ultimately his death, and Conrad's, were right. He said that I should always consider the grey areas when I hunt, but that the reality was still there, that most of what we hunt is going to end up a tragedy one way or another, if we don't finish what we start. Sam, ever since Lenore, I was in a screwed up state about what we do. And I've known for a long, long time that Dad wasn't a saint, and that he was a mess, really. But I didn't want to admit it. I've been so damned aware, lately, that he was just another neurotic and obsessive victim, reacting to the crap in his own life, and raising us in the same screwed-up mind-set. My whole freaking foundation was shook...you understand?"

Sam nodded.

Dean sighed and continued. "Paul had a big part in letting me off my own hook. But he wasn't the only one. When I finally got my head out of my own ass, I saw what I was doing to you, and to David. Even to that little prick Dennis. I snapped out of it and realized that I have a lot more to live for than I have to die for. I can't change a lot of the crap that I've seen, and done. I can't change what we grew up through. But I can use it, to see a little more clearly in future. Aw christ, Sam-I'm not freaking Shakespeare here, I don't know if I'm saying any of this right! Look, what I'm trying to tell you here is that I guess I picked up a healthy dose of perspective through all of this. I know what I am, I know I'm not perfect. And I know Dad wasn't either, but what we do is still the right thing. I might look at each new hunt a little more closely, just so I know my own motives and maybe what other angles there might be to things. But I'm still a hunter. And what we do is still good for the world." He laughed then. "It'll drive me into an early, bloody grave, but at least now I know I was on the right track."

Sam stared at him long after he'd stopped speaking. Dean finally had to say something. "Quit staring at me like I'm Gandhi, for christ's sake!"

Sam smiled with embarrassment. "Sorry. I'm just...really glad to hear all that. Hell, Dean, most of the time I have no idea what's right or wrong, or up or down, right or left. I rely on you for that. I need you to point me in the right direction, so when you lost your own way, I had no freaking idea where to go. I need you to...to know where we're headed. I have this history, and this really scary future. I don't want to be up in front, Dean. I'm not a leader. I need to follow where you think we should go."

Dean had to look down. Sam's eyes were shining with emotion, and he just couldn't take that. He simply nodded, staring hard at the ants on the flagstones. He cleared his throat after a time, pursing his lips in his typical way so that the dimples above deepened. He solemnly met Sam's eyes in the evening dusk. "Well," he said decisively. "I guess you're screwed then, Sammy. Cuz I'm going to hell in a hand-basket." He wasn't sure why, but he burst out laughing.

Sam blinked. The heaviness of the moment broke, and he too was struck by the absurdity of things. He had to laugh in response, and it overtook them to the point that they were incoherent, eyes streaming and short of breath. It was Dean who finally brought them back down.

"Ok, Sam. We've crawled all through our freaking navels, are we done now? I'm pretty much emo'd out here. I seriously need another beer."

Sam sighed, tired but satisfied. "Get me one while you're at it." He followed Dean in, the mosquitoes were becoming insistent, and David was due soon anyway.

* * *

When David did come in, he found his guests sprawled asleep on the sofas. The dog leapt down from the crook of Sam's arm and barked his usual dancing welcome. David roughed him up and greeted the brothers as they yawned hello. Sam had made a big crock-pot beef stew earlier, and he pointed David in the direction, following him to the kitchen. David was starving after his shift, and he filled a bowl, grabbed three beers and headed toward the living room. But he stopped, remembering the conversation he and Sam had that morning. Speaking softly, he turned to him and asked.. "Did you talk to him..?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I think maybe I've been worrying about nothing. He told me a lot of things, and I think he's even more positive now, about a lot of stuff, than before all this happened. It's weird, but I think it's good."

David nodded. He too had witnessed Dean's change in demeanor, and he wanted it to be permanent as much as Sam did. "So you're pretty sure he isn't snowing us, then..?" He knew as well as Sam did that Dean often hid his true state from the people he cared about.

"Christ, David, I never know that! But right now, I think things are on the upswing. I think he's honestly past a lot of really heavy issues."

Their quiet words were interrupted by an impatient voice from the livingroom. "Hey! Get your asses in here, I want my beer!"

David shrugged and grinned. "Sir, yes sir!" he replied, catching Sam's eye. Sam shook his head, smiling.

* * *

Once he was well enough, Dean was chafing to be on the road. He was always stir-crazy after these down-times, and he was constantly worried that their presence would be a threat to those who helped them. David knew that from previous experience, and he didn't argue when Dean announced that they were leaving. It was pointless to try. But he was truly saddened.

He sighed. "You know you don't have to go... not on my account anyway."

"Yeah, I know, David. You say that every time. But you know why we have to go."

David nodded. Reality was what it was, and no amount of wishing would change it. "When?"

"Tonight, probably. There's a few things I still need to do, and we need to pack up, and maybe do some laundry first."

David sat back in his favourite chair and played with the dog's ears. "Does Sam know?"

Dean looked pained for a moment. He knew how valued the security and stability of the Doc's home was to Sam. "I'll talk to him when he gets back. He went out to do something this morning, he was being weirdly tight-lipped about it."

David nodded. He knew what Sam was up to, and he kept quiet. He also knew that Sam had anticipated this, and was preparing for it. David changed the subject. "Any destination in mind?"

Dean shrugged. "Well, nothing hunt-related will be taking us anywhere. You and Dennis made that clear enough. So no, no-where special. I guess I'll let Sam choose this time." David and Dennis had cornered Dean a few days earlier. Dennis made his case quite forcefully; Dean was to avoid exposure to moulds, fungus, and any products of decomposition for at least six weeks, to allow his system to fully recover from his illness. It was a fairly limiting edict, considering what they did. But he agreed, knowing that they all had spent a lot of effort to keep him breathing in recent weeks and he owed them as much.

David smiled. He already knew where Sam wanted to be, and it was not hunting-related in the least. "Well. I'm late, as usual. Promise you won't leave before my shift is over, Dean."

Dean did. When David was gone, he was left alone, and he busied himself with gathering their things and washing what needed it. In between loads, he played with Mayhem, throwing the lacrosse ball endlessly for him. He would miss staying here with David, he realized. It was comfortingly normal. A while later, Sam returned, looking slightly smug. Dean looked up from his folding. "Where were you?"

"Out." Sam sat down, and he took over playing with the dog.

The subterfuge irked Dean. "Look, what was so important that you had to go while I was stuck here doing all the laundry and shit? I've got things to do too, you know!"

Sam evaded him. "Why are you doing all the laundry?"

Dean was cornered. "Well, because, it's time for us to hit the road. And don't give me any crap, Sam! We've been here long enough, and we're jeopardizing David by staying."

To his surprise, Sam agreed this time. "Yeah, I figured this was coming. The signs were there days ago." He started to pile the folded clothes, but Dean stopped him.

"You know we have to go!" he said. "We're bleeding David dry here!"

"Yeah, Dean...I know. I already said so. I get it." He continued gathering.

"Sam, seriously, we can't stay any longer, it's not fair to David! And we just need to be somewhere new now, ok? This is just the way it is!"

Sam stopped. "Dean. I said I know. And I meant it. I know you worry about pulling me out of here, but don't. I'm ready, ok? I want to head out. Stop feeling guilty about it!"

Dean swore. He looked away, embarrassed that his brother could read him so well. "So you're ok with going then..?"

"Yeah, Dean. Like I said, it's time."

Dean had expected more fight. The lack of it left him uncomfortably confused. He changed the subject. "I have to head out for a bit, to do some things. There's another load in the washer-throw it in the dryer when it buzzes, ok?" He didn't wait to hear Sam's response, he stalked out, grabbed the keys from the counter and left.

* * *

It wasn't a ruse, he really did have a task. He pulled up at the Boothe Street Mission. Lucas was there, and he greeted Dean warmly. "You look well." he said, with quiet satisfaction.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. A lot better. Listen, Lucas, I wanted to thank you, and Father Elliot, for helping me. It meant a lot-more than you know. I wish he was around, but I'm glad I at least got to say it to you. Here-" He handed a small packet to Lucas. "This ought to help with some of your overhead. It belonged to the sonofabitch that hurt the old man in the church that day. Seemed like justice to pass it on to you now."

Lucas turned his attention to the thing he'd been handed. He unwrapped it and the gold chain and coin slid out into his hand. He whistled. "Is that real gold..?"

"Yeah. Pretty high carat. Don't let those bastards at the pawn shops cheat you, Lucas. You ought to get a couple grand out of it at the least."

Lucas stared at it, and back to Dean. "Man...are you sure about this?"

"I'm sure."

"Wow. Then I thank you, Dean. It will be a great help."

Dean nodded shyly. "Yeah, well, it seemed like the thing to do. Anyway, take care, Lucas. Father Elliot did good work. So do you. Just wish I could have told him so."

Lucas smiled. "Yes, he did. And Dean..?"

"Mmm?"

"He knows how you feel. He's smiling down on you, right now."

Dean returned the smile as he moved to leave. "Yeah. I'll bet he's got a full glass of scotch raised, toasting the both of us."

Lucas laughed heartily. "Oh you can bet on it! Fare-well, son. Remember us."

"I will."

* * *

The goodbyes were always painful. Dean liked David immensely, more than anyone else he could think of. So did Sam. And he knew what he owed David. And David, for his part, had grown very fond of the Winchesters. He felt as if they were all brothers. The leaving, after such bittersweet stays, was always hard.

David held Mayhem in his arms. The scruffy dog squirmed, eager to leap into the Impala, but David knew that. He whispered into a curly ear, trying to calm him down. He was really just hiding behind the dog, trying to keep a stiff upper lip himself. When Dean and Sam left his home, as they had many times before, he was always filled with a terrible dread that it was the last time he would ever see them alive.

Dean shook his hand solemnly. "David...thanks." Sam had done so earlier.

David nodded. "Call me if you need anything. Or if you find a great spot-I could use a damned vacation myself, I'll be there in a sec!"

Dean smiled and nodded. He got into the car and settled behind the wheel. "Tell Dennis to bite me." he grinned, as the engine roared to life.

David laughed. "Will do."

Sam settled against his seat. "So...where now?"

"We can go wherever you want Sam. Your pick this time. The last couple places I chose kinda sucked." It was an understatement.

"Really? Totally my pick?"

"As long as it's not too stupid!"

Sam didn't hesitate. "Beach. Give me some sun and sand! I want to do nothing but lay on a towel and fry. David said you can't go on any hunts for a while, right? So we have nothing better to do anyway."

Dean groaned. He didn't do 'beach' very well. But he'd promised, and Sam was right, since his hunting wings were clipped for the moment, he had no reason to avoid a little vacation. But he searched desperately for an obstacle. "How are we going to pay for this, by the way? If we head south, the motels will be way too expensive. And I'm not sleeping in the car again, not when it's eighty degrees out!"

Sam grinned smugly. "I've already got it covered. I need to make a stop, before we're out of the city. This address-" He produced a scrap of paper with directions scrawled on it.

"So what is this place?" Dean asked warily.

"You'll see."

Dean made a face, but he indulged Sam. When they reached the destination, Sam took a cloth wrapped item from the back seat. "Back in a few minutes." he said, hopping up the stairs and disappearing into a building. Dean could see no identifying signs, he had no idea what Sam was up to, and it made him nervous. He waited for fifteen anxious minutes before his brother re-emerged.

"What's going on, Sam?" he demanded. "What the hell was that all about?"

"Well, I did some research online about that sword of Paul's. Here-count this." He handed a thick wad of bills to Dean, who stared at the windfall with astonishment. "Go ahead, Dean, count it."

Dean looked at him askance, but did so. When he finished, he was incredulous. "There's over six grand here!"

"Six thousand three hundred, to be exact."

The money alarmed Dean. "What the hell did you do, have somebody suck out a kidney just now? Where'd this come from?!"

Sam snatched it back, folding it and stowing it safely in the glove box. "No Dean. I was trying to tell you. I remembered Paul talking about the sword he had, that he got it from some guy a long time ago, who told him that it was japanese, and that the steel was folded hundreds of times, and the rest of it. Well I figured we'd probably never use it, and maybe it had some value to it..."

"And?!"

"And so I looked into it. Turns out it's really old, like six hundred years. It's from the Koto period, and the symbols on it mean different things, like-"

"Yeah, whatever, get to the point!"

He sighed. "The point, Dean, is that I hooked up with a collector, and he gave me a pretty good offer on it. Might have gotten more, if we wanted to wait and put it in an auction of militaria and antique weapons. But I figured this was pretty good."

Dean stared at him with a rare look of pure admiration. "Six grand from nothing is pretty damned good all right. Awesome! Way to go, Sam!"

Sam beamed. "Yeah, it'll be nice to have a few bucks to play with for a change. So maybe we can see how the other half lives for a little while."

"Sure, yeah." Dean was already parcelling the money out in his mind, -new tires, brake work, muffler- And it made his donation to the Mission a lot less painful. He knew that he and Sam could have used the money it would have brought, but he needed to do it anyway, for Fr. Elliot's memory. Now, the monetary value of the thing was irrelevant. It raised his spirits to soaring, it was nice to have things go their way for once. Dean put the Impala in gear and pulled away. Sam watched him until he had to laugh. Dean was whistling. He was actually whistling...


End file.
